In Case the Scene gets Nasty
by Owari-Mirai
Summary: Not by myself, just uploaded for readers to place on fanfictiondownloader for their ipods
1. Chapter 1

**In****Case****The****Scene****Gets****Nasty**  
>by <span><strong>zarah5<strong> and **softlyforgotten**  
>BrendonRyan  
>90,571 words.<br>NC-17  
>Better to take the long way home than not to arrive at all. A high school AU.<p>

**Authors'****Notes:** So, after a long time of talking about this fic and crying about it to our flists and one abandonment of it and one agreement to pick the damn thing up and finish it because we loved this version of the boys too much to leave them hanging, we would like to present to you our high school AU of doom. Probably a lot of warnings should come with this, the main one being that this is unashamedly based on a badfic premise, and is highly indulgent as a result, the kind of fic both of us have always wanted to read, although hopefully executed with a little more style than the ones we've seen before. Here, then, is a story about a high school wherein Brendon and Ryan hate each other.

Along with warning for indulgence: neither author is American, and neither of us have a very clear understanding of the college application process. We've tried to make it as realistic as possible, but some details may be mistaken, and some may be deliberately wrong to allow for workings of the plot. We apologise, and ask that you suspend your disbelief just a little.

Finally, we have to thank the veritable team of people who got this to where it is: **stele3**, **inderpal**, **tardis80**, and **oddishly** for their cheerleading and help at various stages along the way, and **allyndra** and **ivyenglish** for their brilliant beta jobs at the end.

This fic took us a year to write. We hope you like it.

They're the tiniest kids in their class, always have been, and the sight should be ridiculous, but no one ever laughs. Instead they whisper it through the hallways on the way to lunch, the tension already there – "Hey, hey. Ross and Urie are at it again. You coming?" The question is unnecessary. Everyone always comes.

There's something about it, something that means it escapes the gossip, the rumours behind it, everything that normally happens in high school. No one knows why they do it, except maybe Spencer and Jon, and no one particularly cares, either. The way Ross and Urie fight is ugly; awkward fists and knuckles cracking and grunts, and the crowd that gathers around them is nearly always silent.

Ross's fist slams into Urie's nose, unbalanced but strong enough, and Urie spits out a curse word and launches himself upwards, slamming the top of his head hard into Ross's mouth. They roll over, Urie trying to get back on top, gain the upper hand, and Ross spits blood and saliva into his eye; Urie cries out and slams his hand up into Ross's face, smacking him dizzy.

"Fuck you," Ross sneers when the bell rings and the other students disperse. They stay there, shoving at each other with blind, uncoordinated fury.

"Fuck _you_," Urie tells him, and slams his knee upward into Ross's balls. The bell has rung and the quad is empty apart from them, but they stay there, mud and grass and blood and boy, until one of them wins. One of them always wins. 

Mr. Way's office is not what most people would expect from a principal's office. Ryan's been there a few times now, more than a few times, more than a few times in the last school year, even, so he's not surprised anymore. Yeah, there's a signed poster from some off-Broadway theater play hanging on one of the walls, dark and gloomy in black and white, and there's a painting with red splattered all across the canvas, but speaking of red and splattering, Ryan really is more concerned with the blood that still trickles from the corner of his mouth.

He absently wipes at it with the tissue the secretary gave him, after an exasperated look at him and Urie when they were marched in by the Biology teacher, firm hands clasping their shoulders. It's not like they would have pulled away, anyway; no one crosses Hurley.

Ryan sucks in a breath that tastes a little metallic and refuses to look at Brendon, sitting quiet and small in the chair next to him. Ryan hopes he managed to knock out a front tooth. Maybe _that_ would make Brendon shut up for a while.

"What the fuck are you smiling at?" Brendon hisses out.

Ryan raises a brow even though it hurts a little, the skin besides his right eye feeling bruised. "Thinking about the way you shut up right after I got my knee into your balls. It was wonderful."

"Well," Brendon starts, and Ryan is sure it would be a typically arrogant statement, just like any other time Brendon opens his mouth, but the office door opens and the principal walks in. He takes in their appearance and sighs audibly.

For a moment, Ryan feels stupid and guilty. It passes quickly enough.

"How many times," Mr. Way begins, sounding close to giving up, "have I given you the talk now?"

"Within the last month?" Brendon asks, and this, _this_ is why Ryan hates him, because Brendon can never keep his mouth shut, always has to pretend he's got something to say when really, he's just a dumb little kid who somehow managed to skip a year because everything with numbers and formulas just falls into his lap.

Mr. Way raises an eyebrow. "You proud of your record, Brendon?"

Brendon raises his chin, smirking. "I think most people would be quite glad for any method I've used to get Ross to come down off of his high fucking horse—"

"Oh, like _anyone_gives a shit about what you do," Ryan snaps, and the principal sighs, dropping his head into his hands and rubbing at his eyes.

"Boys," he says tiredly. "I think we'd all agree that the sooner we can deal with this, the better. I expect that you both know, too, that at this level of constant violence and breaking of school rules, I'm expected to suspend you both, as well as calling your parents and asking them to come into the school in order to try and deal with these circumstances."

Brendon leans forward on his chair, eyes wide and urgent. "Sir—" he begins.

"I know," Mr. Way says, simply. "I'm not going to resort to those methods just yet."

Ryan eyes Brendon warily out of the corner of his eye. Brendon sees him looking and scowls, and Mr. Way makes a face at them.

"Stop it," he says. "I've decided if you two are going to waste this much of my time, I'm going to start wasting some of yours. You will be attending detention two nights a week for the rest of the term and sort some of the school's files that need updating."

"Sir," Brendon says, "I work after school."

"I'm aware of that," Mr. Way says. "You'll have to rearrange those two shifts. I'll expect you to report at the front office from four to six thirty every Tuesday and Friday. Starting tomorrow. That way, you can still grab something to eat and use the break to get some of your homework done."

Ryan folds his arms. "No offence, sir," he says. "I'd rather you called my dad."

"Well, it's unfortunate for you that this comes down to my judgment and not yours, then," Mr. Way tells him. Ryan narrows his eyes and next to him, Brendon smirks.

"Fine then," Ryan says coldly, and rises from his seat. "Can I go now? I'm late for History."

"Attitude, Ryan," Mr. Way warns, but he nods his head towards the door and Ryan walks out, swinging the door back with accidental force into Brendon's face. The sound of Mr. Way's groan from the office is clearly audible.

"Well, I hope you're fucking happy," Ryan bites out, when they're outside. Brendon turns without looking at him and walks off down the corridor, chin up, arms straight by his side. Ryan rolls his eyes and yells after him, "Oh, ignoring me, real mature!"

Brendon keeps walking. 

The apartment – if it even deserves the name when it's really just a one-room dump with a greasy kitchenette and an attached bathroom that's as high as it's wide – smells like mold and damp wallpaper. It's not like Brendon can afford more though, and the smell only hits him when he comes in. After a few minutes, he barely notices anymore. It could be worse.

He pauses at the entrance to let the schoolbag slide off his shoulders before he crosses over to the stereo, one of the few things he actually took along when he left._Maybe__some__time__alone__will__help__you__sort__out__your__thoughts_, his mother had said, and, _we're__not__throwing__you__out,__we__just__think__you__need__a__little__space__on__your__own,__for__now_.

Most of the time, Brendon is too exhausted to think at all.

The first notes of _Come__As__You__Are_ have hardly filled the room before his neighbor knocks on the wall. Brendon supposes the music interferes with the man's current choice of sitcom or infomercial or whateverthefuck else comes with bright, excited voices that Brendon can just make out through the wall. With a sigh, he turns the music down, but only marginally.

He shakes his hips a little as he walks to the kitchenette, but Nirvana isn't really the sort of music for dancing. Also, it's not like he has much reason to dance anyway.

Fucking Principal. And stupid fucking _Ryan__Ross_. Brendon wouldn't be in this mess if the fucker hadn't decided that Brendon was standing in the way of his locker. Which Brendon hadn't been. Not really.

The fridge is painfully empty. There's a wilting leek that the market-woman gave him for free, and a carton of orange juice. Not exactly the beginning of a delicious meal.

Brendon glances at the clock. It's half past three already, that doesn't leave him enough time to run to the supermarket around the corner and buy something edible, especially since his pay doesn't come in until the middle of next week and he already spent two of the three dollars he's allotted himself per day until his next paycheck comes in. Spent two dollars on a hot chocolate, at that. Utterly superfluous; he could have done without it just fine, God.

_And__I__swear__that__I__don't__have__a__gun_, Kurt Cobain sings. Brendon kicks the fridge shut and leans back against the kitchen cabinet for a moment, closing his eyes.

Shit. He has ten minutes to get ready, and then he needs to be at the shop and explain to his manager why two out of his six shifts a week aren't possible anymore. Maybe he can talk Audrey into switching.

Right. Because Audrey would be willing to lift so much as a finger for him. 

Jon is stretched out in the grass near the front entrance of the school building, his phone on his stomach. Probably hoping that the girl he chatted up at that party last week will use the number he shoved at her. He opens one eye when Ryan collapses beside him. "So what was it this time?" Jon asks.

"Spencer not out yet?" Ryan looks around before he shrugs and lowers himself back onto his elbows, glaring up at the bright blue sky. "He was in my way," he replies belatedly.

"So you punched him," Jon says.

"No." Ryan frowns. They've been through this numerous times; he doesn't know why Jon just won't let it drop. It's not likes Jon even _likes_ Brendon, would be hard to, what with Brendon's constant ribbing of everyone in sight. "I told him to move. Politely."

One corner of Jon's mouth lifts, and he closes his eye again. "I'm sure."

"I may have mentioned that his mother apparently skipped the class on manners."

"_May_ have mentioned," Jon repeats.

"Whatever," Ryan says dismissively. "Now I've got detention twice a week until the end of the term. As if I didn't get enough of his company _at_school."

"If you didn't feel the need to punch him every time you saw him," Jon drawls, and Ryan huffs, dropping his head back against the ground.

"It's not my fault he's an asshole," he says. "Where's Spence, anyway? We getting milkshakes now?"

"Can't," Jon says regretfully. "I've got an English essay due tomorrow that's kicking my ass. You guys can go, though."

"Maybe," Ryan says. Really, he's not in the mood to do anything anymore, not after today and the detentions and the fight. His lip is stinging and he's got a bit of a headache from where Brendon's fist slammed into his temple. It's weird, he thinks absently, but they're both actually kind of better at fighting, now. Used to be that he never hurt this much afterwards, but this year they've fought more and more often (resulting in Ryan's bad record; he's just glad his dad couldn't care less). Ryan guesses practice makes perfect, after all.

Then Spencer comes and flops next to them and rolls his eyes over Ryan's split lip and Ryan just stops thinking, or caring. 

Brendon's tired enough to sleep on his desk through Trig the next day, where he gets yelled at, and then Music, where he doesn't. He'd ended up staying back late last night and helping close up, mopping the floors and cleaning the machines, in a mostly unsuccessful effort to stop his manager from being quite so pissed at him. He missed the first bus on the way home, and then he'd had to finish an essay for English, and he figures he's had about three and a half hours sleep.

He really, really doesn't feel like going to detention. He especially doesn't feel like going to detention with Ryan Ross.

He ends up going anyway, because otherwise he'd be in even more trouble and also because Mr. Way's pretty cool, really, for a teacher. He didn't sit Brendon down and give him a big talk about going home when Brendon told him what had happened, anyway, didn't even push him when Brendon said he didn't want to talk to the counsellor or anything. He let Brendon sleep on the couch in his office during lunch and his free periods for a few days when he was still learning how to juggle school and work and eating and sleeping and stuff, and Brendon doesn't really want to make him get that disappointed face again. Mr. Way's too good at guilting people out.

Brendon's there first, after school, so he sits down on one of the chairs in the front office and closes his eyes, leaning back against the wall. Fuck, he's tired. For a moment he imagines he's cancelled his early shift for some other, okay reason, that he can go home and maybe watch something on TV, sprawled out on his mattress, and then pass out for a few hours before he's due into work. He could manage twelve hours sleep, even. Brendon can't remember the last time he had twelve hours sleep. He can't remember the last time he had _eight_.

After a moment the door swings open again and Ryan Ross announces his presence with a huff and a muttered obscenity in Brendon's direction. Brendon opens his eyes and smiles sweetly at him and Ryan narrows his eyes, glares.

"I gotta say," Brendon says earnestly, leaning forward with his arms on his knees. "Really, I just want to thank you. I feel like we don't see enough of each other, you know? I'm hoping to soak up some of your general awesomeness—"

"Shut up," Ryan says, gritting his teeth. "I'm missing out on movies with friends tonight, thanks to you—"

"I'll expect the thank you card from them any day now," Brendon says blithely.

"Just because some of us _have_ friends," Ryan snaps.

"Why, Ross, I didn't know you _cared_."

"Believe me, I don't." Ryan gives him a sharp smile. "I just think it's interesting, you know? I mean, even _you_ should be able to find some kind of ally amongst all the science geeks if you could just rear your ego in once in a while. I would have thought your little Mormon guidelines list arrogance as a sin, but apparently not."

"Don't you fucking—"

"Is there a problem?" a voice asks from the door. Brendon turns to find Mr. Wentz beaming at them, and that's just really, really unfair. English teachers love Ryan. Rumor has it that Mr. Beckett even went so far as to recommend him for a scholarship because Ryan has a stupid fondness for words with three or more syllables, and that's apparently all it takes to be considered the next Philip Roth or whatever. Brendon had to work hard for his own music scholarship recommendation; it didn't just come on a silver platter because he batted his lashes.

"No problem at all," Ryan tells Wentz, smiling weakly, pointedly not looking at Brendon.

"Good," Wentz says. "I'd hate having to tell Gerard that you two don't take this seriously. He always takes bad news personally, you know?"

"Um," Ryan says.

Brendon sighs and glances at the clock on the wall. It's ten past three, and by the time he gets out, it will be past six and he'll have to leave for the late shift straight away. If he's lucky, it's a slow day and he can do some of his homework behind the counter.

Wentz follows the direction of Brendon's gaze and nods, clapping his hands. "Right, right. So, how about we get to work?"

_How__about__not?_ Brendon is tempted to ask. He doesn't, though. Just nods feebly and shuffles into the record room behind Wentz and Ryan, keeping his head down with a headache bubbling just behind his forehead.

The record room is gray and bland, not very big and cramped with cabinets that apparently need to be rearranged according to some kind of system. Curtains of a faded yellow are blocking the view of the outside world. Brendon tries to listen to Wentz's explanation, but Wentz doesn't make a lot of sense on his best days, and it's not helping that Brendon has to blink rapidly to keep from drifting off.

He'll just watch Ryan and follow his lead.

"All right, then," Wentz says, and Brendon snaps to attention. "That's all for now. Get started, and if you need anything, I'll be just outside grading stuff." His grin flashes in the dimness of the room. "Don't force me to come looking in on you."

"We won't," Ryan promises, eyes wide and fixed on Wentz. Brendon suspects Ryan has a crush; he makes a note to bring it up later and wonders why he's faintly irritated about it. It's just _embarrassing_, he thinks, watching Ryan look so nauseatingly sweet.

Wentz flashes another grin that encompasses Brendon. "I'll hold you to it."

He leaves the room and pulls the door shut behind himself, and Brendon turns his head to find Ryan still staring after him. "Oh, _sir_, we won't," Brendon repeats, his tone mocking, but his voice lowered so as not to carry into the next room. "Me and my right hand, we only want to be good to you."

Ryan's gaze flickers to him. "And isn't it funny how _I_ was perfectly able to pay attention to Wentz while I'm pretty sure _you_ didn't catch a word of what he said?"

"You were practicing your unswerving devotion," Brendon tells him. "I didn't want to rain on your parade."

"Rain on my parade?" Ryan echoes, tone full of mild disbelief. "Are you Mormon or Amish?"

Hot, fierce anger grips at Brendon's stomach and he folds his arms. Most of the time, he and Ryan get to beating each other up too quickly to snipe at each other for long. Brendon really misses that standard procedure right about now. "Shut the fuck up. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Dear God," Ryan says solemnly, pressing his palms together and holding them at his chest. "Today the big bad Ryan was mean to me, and—"

Brendon loses control of any possible rational thought and lunges forward, aiming blindly for Ryan's head. It's not a very good punch; it hurts his fist probably more than it hurts Ryan, and the blow glances off the side of Ryan's head. It's enough to provoke a reaction, though; Ryan stares at him in disdain.

"Are you an _idiot_?" he spits. "There's a teacher next door, moron!"

"You scared?" Brendon asks, teeth bared. He feels a little stupid, thoughts whirling, but there's something about Ryan that brings out the worst in him.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Ryan begins, and then Brendon smirks at him and Ryan shoves Brendon hard, sending him stumbling back into the wall with a thump.

Someone knocks sharply on the wall. Brendon freezes and Mr. Wentz says, "Everything alright in there?"

"Uh, yeah," Brendon calls through the plaster. "Sorry!"

He turns back to the room and Ryan's eyeing him with an unpleasant grin. He stretches his arms out wide and says, "Come on, what's the matter? You scared?"

Brendon scowls at him and retreats to a corner of the room. He pulls a box of files towards him and bends his head over it, spends the rest of the time sorting through them (glancing secretly up at Ryan now and again to make sure he's doing it right). The room is small and not ventilated very well, and the hot, enclosed atmosphere makes Brendon's head hurt and doesn't really do much to help him stay awake. He wishes he hadn't allowed himself to be talked into doing yet another late shift.

On the plus side, Ryan doesn't speak for the next three hours, and they sit in silent, frozen anger until Wentz pokes his head around the door and says they can go home. 

It's dark when Ryan gets outside, winter creeping in steadily. Brendon hurries in the opposite direction with his hands shoved in his pocket, and when a bus rounds the corner Ryan sees him break into a run. He hopes idly for a moment that it'll drive straight past but apparently the bus driver doesn't know about Brendon Urie's general evilness, and stops for him.

Ryan calls Spencer, who picks up with, "Hey, you survived!"

"Barely," Ryan grumbles, and then adds indignantly, "Why would _I_be the one to perish, anyway? Urie's a weakling!"

"Tell that to the black eye you had last month," Spencer says. "I'm glad you did, anyway. Jon owes me five bucks."

"You are both horrible people," Ryan says coldly. "Are we at your place, tonight?"

"Jon's," Spencer says. "He's making popcorn. You want us to save some for you?"

"Duh," Ryan says. 

Friday nights are a tradition with them, have been since Ryan and Spencer moved to high school and met Jon. Ryan's dad doesn't really care where he goes, barely notices when he's home, and Jon and Spencer both have pretty cool parents, so Friday nights they crash at either Jon or Spencer's place and watch movies and let their moms try and fatten Ryan up.

When he gets there, Jon's acting out some of the more implausible action sequences from the movie they just saw and Spencer's laughing helplessly on the couch. Ryan scowls at his feet and tries not to be too ridiculously jealous; fucking detention, fucking Brendon. Spencer glances up at him and rolls his eyes.

"Come on," he says. "It wasn't _that_bad, was it?"

"I was trapped in a small room with Brendon Urie for three hours," Ryan says.

"Two and a half," Spencer corrects.

Ryan gives him an unimpressed look. "How could it _not_be horrible?"

"Least it's over," Jon says, offering him the popcorn. Ryan takes a handful and throws himself back on the couch, half-squishing Spencer in the process.

"For now," he says gloomily. "Twice a week for the next _nine_, though. I'm going to go crazy."

"Brendon does have a habit of bringing out the worst in you," Spencer observes. Ryan shoots him a glare and Spencer says, "Okay, don't kill me. Look, we got Moulin Rouge out as an acknowledgment of your pain."

Ryan smiles at that, and Jon drags the mattress out from his room and puts it in front of the couch. They watch Moulin Rouge, and then one of Spencer's creepy horror movies, and then Never Been Kissed ("Or I'll have nightmares," Jon says, all wide eyes and eyelashes, "And you don't want that, do you?"). Halfway through the last Ryan drifts off to sleep, cheek against Spencer's forearms. His friends are the best, he thinks with sleepy honesty. 

A friend of Jon's throws a party on Saturday, so Ryan doesn't get home until the early hours of morning, his clothes smelling disgustingly of smoke and alcohol, neither of them his. It's past noon when he wakes up the next day, and when he gets down, his dad is sitting at the kitchen table nursing a hangover.

That shouldn't bother him – God knows he's used to it by now – but it's Sunday, and on Sundays Spencer's family always has a huge breakfast, loud and obnoxious with everyone talking over everyone. Spencer always has to make fresh orange juice, and Ryan doesn't even _like_ orange juice, but somehow, it bothers him that there's none on the mostly empty table.

"Morning," his dad says absently. He's in an okay mood, Ryan thinks warily, and his gaze even lingers on the bruise beside Ryan's eye when he looks up from his coffee. It's already faded, but they haven't really seen each other over the last few days. Ryan's dad always seems to be out, and Ryan makes a point of avoiding him when he's not. In any case, his dad doesn't ask about it and Ryan doesn't volunteer anything, grabbing an apple and a bottle of water.

"I have a pile of homework and studying to do," he says, scratching awkwardly at his elbow. "I'm gonna eat upstairs."

"Sure," his dad says, turning back to the newspaper. Ryan stays a moment longer, fists by his side, waiting for something, for anything, but his dad doesn't add anything more and after a moment he turns and heads back upstairs.

Ryan thinks about starting with English, but… he'd regret starting with something easy, something he actually enjoys. Instead, he digs out his Math notes and spreads them on his bed along with the textbook, flopping down on his stomach and kicking up his legs.

It takes less than twenty minutes for frustration to settle in.

Stupid Brendon would probably fly through this stuff, but analysis is like a foreign language to Ryan, and not one he ever had class in. He curses, leans halfway off the bed to flick his stereo on, grabbing the phone before he pulls himself back up.

Spencer's class hasn't covered it yet – which is a shame, because Spencer and numbers is almost as creepy as Brendon and numbers and formulas – so Ryan calls Jon. Jon picks up almost immediately with, "Missing me already, Ross?"

"Yeah," Ryan says. "I pine every second we're apart. You can't see me now, but I'm crying and everything."

"'Course you are," Jon says, and Ryan can hear him smiling. He rolls over onto his back and stares at the band posters that plaster the walls. It's been a couple of years since he put them up; none of them make sense anymore.

"So, uh," Ryan begins, then groans out loud. "I started Math. Help, please?"

Jon's laugh is warm, easy. "You want to come over?" he asks, and, "Please, yes," Ryan says. The house feels strangely suffocating to him, and since Jon's crush of the month actually took him up on the invitation to yesterday's party, he's bound to be in a good mood.

It's kind of unfair how much more action Jon gets compared to Ryan and Spencer, but then, Ryan guesses he can't complain, considering he doesn't even try. He wouldn't mind having something besides his own hand to get off for a change, but the whole relationship thing is just too much of a hassle, and one-night stands are a little difficult to come by when you can't legally buy anyone a drink.

He rolls himself to his feet and shoves his things into his backpack before he leaves the room without a backwards glance. There's no reply when he calls out a goodbye to his father, so he shrugs his shoulders and pulls the front door closed behind himself. 

The week has barely begun, and Brendon is fully prepared to have it over already. It doesn't improve his mood that Tuesday used to be his day off until Ryan fucking Ross just _had_ to start a fight that got them into this whole detention mess.

Brendon wouldn't be surprised if Way just made the whole thing up. It's the age of computers; there's no reason why they should have to hand-sort records arranged in alphabetical order so that they're arranged first by year, then by letter.

He doesn't think whining would improve his situation. He's almost desperate enough to try anyway. Almost being the key word.

Brendon slams his locker shut and sets off for AP Biology that will have him spend even more time in a room with Ryan and his little sidekick Jon. At least Brendon's lab partner Brent is easy to deal with, quiet and obedient, and he's smart enough to just go along with whatever Brendon says. Brendon kind of wants to start a petition for more people like that.

He's late to class, but so is the teacher so it's not too bad. He slides in next to Brent and mumbles a greeting, and then loud laughter attracts his attention and he glances up. There's some kids in a corner leaning all over the benches, kind of sly, talking to Ryan – Brendon recognizes them, vaguely, as guys who go to his old church. They never really liked Brendon, not quite normal enough for him to be friends with them, and they definitely don't talk to him anymore. He misses it, sometimes, though he'll never admit it; the easy, unconditional kindness of anyone in the church with you. Those guys never really had it but they will when they get older, past the better-than-you stage of adolescence, Brendon guesses.

He can be faintly proud of them, anyway, at the way they're grinning sort of meanly at Ryan. Ryan's hunched in on himself, glaring, and his friend's starting to look pissed off. Brendon leans back in his chair to enjoy the show and eventually Ryan's friend, Jon something, tugs Ryan away and says, over his shoulder, "Just shut the fuck up. Assholes."

Ryan folds into the chair in front of Brendon still glowering, and Brendon bites back a grin. He leans forward and murmurs, voice low, "Aw, that was just so _sweet_. He gonna carry your books to your next class, too?"

Ryan turns slowly on his chair, eyes narrowed, and Jon casts a disbelieving look at Brendon. Brendon beams back at him and flutters his eyelashes, clutching his heart. "Oh, my _hero_," he says.

"Grow up," Ryan snaps. "I'll show you who's the goddamn—"

"Ryan," Jon says. He leans forward and murmurs something softly at Ryan, too low for Brendon to catch more than a few words; "father" and "just because—" and "shitty day". Ryan raises his chin and hisses out something sharp and annoyed, but Jon just raises an eyebrow at him, and eventually Ryan mumbles an apology. It's only then that Jon turns to Brendon and tells him to mind his own business.

"Think I'll mind whoever's business I like," Brendon says. "Free country. Heard of the first amendment?"

Ryan opens his mouth but Jon touches his shoulder, just slightly, and Ryan rolls his eyes, turns around and stares fixedly at the whiteboard. Jon looks at Brendon and sighs, says, "No, really. Grow up."

Brendon shuts his mouth, thinks, _fuck__you,__I'm__trying_. 

"So, do you miss him when he's gone?" Brendon asks, grinning obnoxiously.

Ryan raises a brow at him, and he doesn't really feel like rising to Brendon's bait; he's had enough of those prejudiced Mormon assholes who sneer because he wears eyeliner and doesn't do much to hide the fact that he thinks both genders are equally attractive. Still, it's Brendon, and Brendon's been Ryan's sparring partner for longer than he cares to admit. "Care to clarify that?"

"Walker," Brendon says blithely. "I imagine it must be difficult to be away from your one true love for as much as three hours, and all to sort files with me. I'm flattered, Ross, really."

"Tell me something," Ryan begins.

Brendon tilts his head, gaze skittering down, then back up. "Yes, those jeans do make you look fat."

"Does it require a lot of practice to be this much of an asshole?" Ryan asks. "Do you have to practice your lines in front of the mirror? Mumble insults under your breath while you serve customers at that smoothie place you work at? That's not the right way to get a tip, you know?"

He can see Brendon's ready reply in the line of his mouth, steeling himself for it – which is when Stump walks in, glancing back and forth between them. "Any problems?" he asks calmly.

"None at all," Brendon assures him. _Suck-up_, Ryan mouths when Stump is looking the other way. It's not like there's much sense in Brendon sucking up to teachers; all the Mormons have their future planned out anyway, and it doesn't include a music course at some college.

"Good." Stump nods his chin towards the record room. "So, Pete tells me you know what to do, and I'll be out here. Just call me if there's a problem."

"All right," Ryan says. He disappears into the room first, but Brendon isn't far behind. Ryan is tempted to trip him when Brendon walks past. He refrains, though, mostly because it just wouldn't be wise with Stump right there. Sometimes, Ryan does have an ounce of self-control, even when it comes to Brendon.

They set to work silently, without looking at each other. It's tedious, stupid and exhausting, three hours of nothing but opening a file, checking for the date to put it on the appropriate pile, stacks of files all around them.

There are twice as many piles as they need: two for 1992, two for 1993, and so on. It probably would be easier if they agreed to collaborate, but Ryan isn't about to suggest it.

His phone beeps with a text message halfway through, and Ryan pulls it out despite Brendon's dark look and muttered insult. _still__alive?_ Spencer wants to know.

_about__to__commit__homicide_, Ryan texts back. _youll__be__my__alibi,__yes?_

"Seriously, Ross, can't you go five minutes without talking to your boyfriend?" Brendon hisses when Ryan's phone beeps with Spencer's reply; _sure__i__got__your__back_.

"Sorry," Ryan says flatly. "Some of us have friends, you know?"

"Fuck you," Brendon says and turns away. Ryan looks at the line of his back for a moment before he shakes his head. God, how can one tiny person be this annoying? 

Payday still hasn't arrived, but as if his week didn't suck enough yet, Brendon tore his best pair of jeans when he climbed over a fence to take a shortcut to the bus station. He wouldn't mind so much if it were at the knees; he could pass that off as some kind of warped fashion statement. He's not so comfortable with his underwear showing, though.

Fuck.

So anyway, that's why he seeks out the second-hand store just around the corner from the Strip. It's the largest one in the city, and the very few clothes Brendon allowed himself to buy since his parents suggested he spend some time on his own (since they kicked him out) came from there.

There's a yarn shop on the first floor, and when Brendon climbs the stairs, he's already hit with the first notes of The Smashing Pumpkins. One bonus of shopping at _Twice__Shy_ is that the clerks have good taste in music; maybe it's a job requirement. Maybe Brendon should apply.

He locks his backpack into one of the lockers and squeezes the key and his wallet into the back pocket of his pants before he walks through the turnstile, glancing around. There's no one behind the counter, and there are only a few customers milling about the large room. Most of them are of the hippie/alternative variety, and they fit nicely into the place, with its faint scent of weed and incense, the multi-colored tapestries that cover the walls.

Brendon hums along with the music, _and__we__just__don't__know__where__our__bones__will__rest_, as he makes his way over to the jeans. Anything that's been hanging around the store for more than three months gets a twenty-five percent discount, so he mostly just looks for jeans with an orange point on the tag.

"Need help?" a familiar voice asks from behind him. Brendon startles and turns slowly to find Ryan leaning against a clothes rack.

Ryan's pleasant smile transforms into a frown. "Oh, it's you. What are you doing here?"

"Running for President," Brendon replies. "What does it _look_ like I'm doing?"

One of Ryan's brow quirks. He does that a lot, and it never fails to irritate Brendon, an itching feeling in his bones to make that superior expression collapse into itself. "Why are you in the men's section, then?" Ryan asks. "With your ass, I think girl pants really are the way to go."

"Thanks," Brendon says smoothly, "But you're really not my type."

Ryan folds his arms and says coolly, "Careful. Wouldn't want to risk your immortal soul for the sake of being an asshole."

Brendon shoves his hands into his pockets and swallows down the automatic urge to swing forward and punch Ryan's smug little expression off of his face. Brendon never used to be this violent, he thinks a little uneasily; probably _still_isn't, when it comes to other people. It's a little frightening, in some ways, the relentless, restless anger that Ryan inevitably pulls up out of him, but at the same time it's useful. Ryan packs a hard punch, for someone so fragile looking, and Brendon might have been killed by now if it wasn't for the ceaseless fury Ryan somehow manages to inspire in him.

"Fuck off," he says, looking at a point a bit above Ryan's head. "I see you too much in school, already."

Ryan's mouth twists. "You were the one who walked into _my_store," he points out.

"Yours," Brendon scoffs, but he turns around and walks away without trying to come up with something smarter. He's too tired to, and he doesn't want to risk being thrown out – he needs the goddamn jeans.

After a while, Ryan gets called up to work on the checkouts. Brendon waits until he's replaced before going up and buying the jeans he found, avoiding him as much as is possible in the relatively small shop, but even as he walks out he's conscious of Ryan's hard, mocking gaze boring into the back of his head. 

It's the nice manager working that night, the one who reminds Brendon a little bit of his mom, in the fond way she looks at him and in a certain comfortable tiredness in the way she walks. He's polite to her almost by instinct and she likes him as a result, so she gives him a lift home after he helps her close up ("I'm heading in that direction," she says, "My brother lives nearby,") and he's home a full forty minutes earlier than normal.

He's glad; catching the bus this late at night can always be a bit of a fraught prospect (fuck, he remembers when he wasn't _allowed_to, only a year ago) and he has a lot of homework, again. Detention two nights a week doesn't really help with the whole staying on top of schoolwork, thing, especially as he thinks Ryan would take immense pleasure in telling whoever's supervising almost immediately if he tried to do some in between filing.

When he gets home, though, he looks at the clock and thinks _maybe_, and instead of getting started on his practical report for Biology he pulls out his cell and calls Kara.

She answers with the same soft wariness she's been answering with for months: "Hey, Brendon. I'll call you back, okay?"

"Yeah," Brendon says. He hangs up and a minute later his phone rings again. "Hi."

"How you doing?" she says.

"Alright," Brendon says. "Kids asleep?"

"For now," she says. "Tommy's got the flu."

"Oh," Brendon says. "That sucks."

"Poor little boy," she sighs. "His nose is all clogged up, and he gets teary about it. Has to breathe with his mouth open."

"Will he be alright?" Brendon asks, a little tentatively. He's not the biggest fan of little kids, but it's his nephew, and he kind of misses being able to go and hang out with Kara and her husband – who was actually really cool before this whole thing went down – and the kids. They gave him an excuse to sing Disney obnoxiously loud, anyway. Not that he really needs an excuse.

"Of course," Kara says, laughing quietly. "We went and got some antibiotics, he'll be fine."

"If I, like," Brendon says, and then swallows hard. "If I had a Christmas present for him and you guys, or whatever, could I post it to you, or—"

"Brendon," Kara pleads, "Just come home. Don't be by yourself for Christmas. Mom and Dad, they'll forgive you if – you just need to apologize and go back to Church and it's the right thing, you know it is, Bren—"

"I don't believe anymore," Brendon says tiredly, sinking to the ground and resting his head against the wall. "Come on, I don't want to have this fight again. Please?"

"I miss you," she says. "We all miss you."

"I'm not the one refusing to see you guys," Brendon says.

"Don't," she says. She sounds exhausted and Brendon feels guilty – she's got a sick kid. He shouldn't be heaping all his problems on her.

"I know," he says. "Sorry. Anyway, I should go."

"You okay, Brendon?" she asks.

"I'm fine," Brendon says. "I'll talk to you later, Kara. Tell Tommy to feel better soon."

"Yeah," she says. "Goodnight. I love you."

"Love you," Brendon says, and hangs up. He stays on the floor for a little while longer, eyeing his schoolbag in the corner with distaste. "God, I'm tired," he tells the empty apartment.

The apartment, predictably, does not answer. Brendon pulls himself to his feet. "Yeah, I know," he says. "Homework." 

Ryan's father is talking about the last meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous, and Ryan makes humming noises into his cell and pretends to believe him even though there's a slight slur still lingering in his dad's words.

He thinks about sneaking into the house later that day, after detention when his dad is almost certain to be out, to take some of the empty bottles to the recycling bin. His father is usually too ashamed to do it. 

Brendon walked down to buy a bagel after school, and since he miscalculated the distance to the deli, it took longer than he thought. He has the suspicion that it might be International Murphy's Law Day because while it doesn't rain often in Vegas, he gets caught in a downpour as he runs back to school. By the time he makes it to detention, he's ten minutes late and drenched.

Wentz looks up when he dashes in, settled at the huge desk in the main office with his feet on the table. He looks reproachful for a moment before something about Brendon's bedraggled state seems to amuse him.

"Sorry, sorry," Brendon manages. "Lost track of the time, sorry."

"All right," Wentz say, waving him towards the back room. "Just don't make a habit of it."

"Sure, no," Brendon says. Wentz is actually pretty cool, so it doesn't feel like sucking up – even though Brendon might need his goodwill for his finals. That's still a long way to go; no sense in worrying about it already.

Brendon closes the door to the record room behind himself. Ryan is crouched on the floor, a stack of records in front of him that he's apparently sorting through. His lips curl into a smirk. "Wow, look what the cat dragged in."

"Shut up, Ross," Brendon mutters. He makes himself turn away, into a different corner of the room.

It's silent for a moment, then Ryan starts again. "So, how come you're so late? Pop back home for afternoon tea with Mommy? Grace ran for longer than planned? Actually, does your family take turns saying it, or is it like a round robin, everyone doing a sentence or something?"

Brendon stands motionless, his shoulder curled in, and _I__love__you_ echoes in his head. _I__love__you_, and, _go__back__to__church_.

"I mean, there's a lot of you," Ryan continues. "So that would take a while, right?"

"Better than my mother running away because she couldn't stand the sight of me anymore," Brendon hisses. He doesn't really know all that much about Ryan's background, but he caught snippets of conversation here and there, enough to conclude that he lives alone with his father, and that they don't get along. "At least I have a family, not just a father who doesn't give a damn."

His chest aches, but he refuses to think about how much of a lie that is.

"Fuck you." Ryan scrambles to his feet, face drawn. "You know _nothing_ about my father, so shut the fuck up."

"Touchy subject?" Brendon asks. He crosses his arms and stands his ground even as Ryan approaches, and Wentz is right next door, this isn't such a good idea, but God, Brendon's had a really bad day, and with Ryan, he never has to feel guilty afterwards.

Ryan's eyes flicker towards the closed door, then he reaches out and pinches the sensitive skin in the crook of Brendon's elbow. He presses down hard, enough to leave a mark, and Brendon takes a step back and stares at him, rather incredulously. "Did you just _pinch_ me?" he asks. "What are you, a girl?"

Ryan raises his chin. "Consider this a symbolic gauntlet."

"No, seriously," Brendon says, "are you a girl?"

Ryan's smile is sharp. "How about we settle that later, in the parking lot? No Wentz nearby."

"Told you you're not my type," Brendon says.

"Scared?"

"Of you?" Brendon snorts. "Hardly."

Ryan's smile twitches into a smirk. Brendon narrows his eyes at him and then, after a moment, nods. 

They leave – not side by side, exactly, but it's something like that. Ryan glances over to find Brendon staring straight ahead, frowning, his clothes dry by now. Twilight embraces them once they make it outside, and it's still drizzling faintly, a fine curtain of mist to shield them from view.

Ryan shoves Brendon into the grass before Brendon can do the same to him. Even as he falls, Brendon hooks a leg around Ryan's calves, dragging him down with him. Ryan catches his weight with his hands, but he lands halfway on the pavement and can already feel the skin tearing. Then Brendon's fist connects with his shoulder, and he rolls around, kicking out blindly. Brendon groans out a curse, and all around them, the rain keeps falling.

Ryan isn't quite sure how he ends up on top of Brendon, pinning him down with his own weight, pressing both of Brendon's hands into the grass. All he knows is that his lip is bleeding again, and his left arm is a little numb with a well-placed punch Brendon landed on his elbow.

"Who's the girl now?" Ryan asks, squeezing down on Brendon's wrists for emphasis.

"Fuck you," Brendon grits out. He's staring up at Ryan as if he's calculating his next move. Ryan shifts his weight for better leverage.

It's not that Brendon freezes under him, or moans or anything like that. It's just that for a second, Brendon's eyes lose their focus, and Ryan can see how Brendon's throat moves when he swallows. Suddenly, inexplicably, Ryan wonders how Brendon's rain-wet skin would taste if he leaned down right now. The urge is gone in an instant.

Ryan grinds his hips down, more of an experiment, and yes, Brendon is half-hard under him. That little _hypocrite_. "Huh," Ryan says, voice low. "That turn you on, Urie? Being held down by another guy?"

Brendon's gaze narrows and he moves to roll them over when Ryan shifts a little, hips knocking together. Brendon seems to forget about his previous plan, swallowing once again.

Ryan grins and leans forward, almost close enough for their noses to brush. "Seriously, dude, what _would_ your big guy up there say?"

Before he knows what's coming, Brendon's fist connects with his temple. It's a hard blow and it makes Ryan's vision go dark and fuzzy for a moment, his head dizzy and reeling, enough for Brendon to shove him viciously off and stand up, kicking Ryan hard in the ribs as he does so. By the time Ryan's got sense of his bearings, again, Brendon is walking away across the pavement, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, the sharp line of his back through his wet, cotton shirt radiating fury.

Ryan rubs his temples, where a headache is beginning to build, insistent and sore, and watches him go. 

Brendon misses his bus and ends up walking home, furious and embarrassed, his skin feeling hot and prickly with discomfort and his stomach churning at the thought of having to _face_Ryan again on Monday, after only two days of reprieve. He's almost grateful to the rain for some sense of coolness about him, but after a while the cheap, wet material of his shirt starts to chafe against his skin and his shoes feel waterlogged from where he accidentally stepped in a puddle, little toe on his left foot sticking out of a hole in his sock and squeaking against the inside of the shoe.

Fucking – _God_. Brendon runs his hands through his hair impatiently and switches his satchel to the opposite shoulder and then back again; uncertain, quick movements. If it had been anyone else in the world it would have been better, easy to explain away as a natural reaction but now it's going to go into Ryan's book as yet another thing to use against him and Brendon would really, really appreciate the upper hand in just _one_aspect of his life for a while.

Such a dumb thing to happen, too, such a stupid little thing for his body to betray him on. Just, Brendon left the only sort of action he got when he left the Church, Anna in the choir who used to kiss him and sometimes would awkwardly grope at his dick through the denim of his jeans. Half of the whole leaving _thing_(though not the half he told his parents) had been due to him working out that no, actually, he wasn't interested in anything more with Anna in the slightest, that part of the reason he'd thought he liked her in the first place was her short, dark hair, her tiny breasts that disappeared in the big, loose t-shirts she wore. Anna wasn't exactly the most feminine of girls, and Brendon wasn't particularly torn up to have had to leave her (such as the leaving was; they never talked about going out or any of that shit, and Brendon got the feeling he was as much her experiment as she was his), but nevertheless it was something, some_one_touching him.

Now, Brendon's gotten more familiar with his hand than ever, but it's not like he gets a lot of physical contact with anyone else, either. He can't remember the last time someone gave him a hug, or even sat and leaned against him, and if Ryan fucking Ross is going to pin him against the ground on a frequent basis then Brendon's more surprised it hasn't happened _sooner_than this.

It's still embarrassing. Brendon gets home late and wet and exhausted and hops in the shower, despite the fact he should be getting on with his homework. He leans against the wall and thinks more furious, rude things about Ryan that end with his throat tight, mouth twisted with trying to keep back useless, angry tears. After a while, feeling stupid and ridiculously guilty, he jerks off. Just when he's getting close his wrists ache with the sudden, remembered contact of Ryan's long fingers wrapped around them, and Brendon tips his head back under the water and comes. 

Ryan makes a quick stop at his empty house, just long enough to drop off his things and change into dry, comfortable clothes, before heading over to Jon's. For all that he's trying to block out the last two hours or so, his mind is still reeling with the unexpectedness of finding Brendon half-hard under him, aroused by their closeness. It doesn't mean anything, probably, a stupid physical reaction because they're teenage boys; the sight of wet _pavement_ turns them on. It doesn't mean anything that Ryan, for a blink of an eye, thought about leaning closer rather than away.

It doesn't mean anything, but his whole body feels jittery with the memory.

Which is why he isn't thinking about it, right. Ryan determinedly kicks the bottom stair of Jon's front porch before he rings the bell.

Jon opens the door with a grin and his phone pressed to his ear, telling someone – presumably his girlfriend or whatever Cassie now is, and might even stay for a week or so – a quick goodbye. Then he thumbs the phone off and tilts his head to take in Ryan's face, grin slipping. For all that the lightning on the front porch is dim, Ryan caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror before he left his room, and yeah, there's already a bruise forming near his temple, dark and angry.

"Again?" Jon asks after a significant silence. He sounds resigned.

Ryan shrugs and shifts his gaze to his feet. "Got something for a headache?"

"Advil?"

"Perfect," Ryan says. He glances behind Jon. "Spencer not here yet?"

"No." Jon shakes his head and opens the door wider, motioning for Ryan to follow him. Ryan does, kicking off his shoes once he's inside. Jon's mother is very fond of the new beige carpet in the living room. "He said he's running late because dinner lasted a little longer," Jon adds. "What about you, did you eat already? The parents are out for some theater thing or something, so we ate early. There's leftovers."

Now that Jon mentions it, Ryan actually is hungry. "Yeah," he says, and for the first time since he got up from the ground in the school parking lot, he feels somewhat at ease again.

"It's in the fridge," Jon says just as the bell rings again. "I'm gonna let Spencer in, you can help yourself, yeah?"

Ryan smiles, and it's hardly a stretch. "Sure."

Jon sets off for the front door, and Ryan can hear talking while he crosses over to the kitchen. He's spooning rice and carrots onto a plate when Spencer and Jon come ambling in. Spencer knocks their wrists together, then pauses to take in Ryan's state, just like Jon did earlier. "Survived, I see," he says dryly.

Ryan keeps his eyes on his plate. "Something like that," he mumbles, and he isn't thinking back on the sensation of a hard, warm body under his.

"That reminds me," Jon says. "Advil. And something to clean up that cut on your lip."

"Cut?" Ryan sticks out his tongue, and sure enough, one corner of his mouth tastes faintly metallic.

"So, who won this time?" Spencer asks as Jon leaves the kitchen. He sounds exasperated, but leans over to snatch a piece of carrot from Ryan's plate regardless. As long as Spencer steals food from Ryan, he isn't mad. It's like a rule between them, and it works both ways.

"You just ate," Ryan pointedly tells him.

"It was a carrot," Spencer says. "And you evaded my question, so I take it you lost. Seriously, how can you lose to Urie? That kid is, like, the size of a garden gnome."

"I didn't lose," Ryan says. At least he doesn't think he did. He's honestly not quite sure.

"Whether you lost or not," Jon says from the door, "he seems to have landed a good punch."

"I was distracted," Ryan says, then flushes red. He quickly nudges the fridge door shut, hoping that without its illumination, it won't be obvious. Of course, it only makes Jon switch on the lamp above the kitchen table.

"Ryan Ross," Spencer says slowly, leaning forward. "Are you _blushing_?"

"No," Ryan says. He bites the inside of his cheek and turns to Jon, holding out his hand. "Can I have some of that Advil now? And really, I'm in the mood for some classics. Shaun of the Dead. Or The Big Lebowski, maybe."

"All right," Jon says after a momentary pause. Ryan can feel Spencer's narrowed gaze resting on his face for just a second longer before Spencer apparently decides to lets it go as well.

Ryan isn't kidding himself he's heard the last of it. 

On Saturday Brendon wakes up with a pounding head and a sore throat, and he barely manages to reach out for his cell to call work and tell them he won't be able to come in today. He feels sick about it – an eight hour shift, gone – but it's the nice manager again and she asks him, gently, if he'd like to work longer tomorrow, to make it up. Brendon thinks, _I__feel__like__shit,_ and says, "Yes."

He falls asleep again, has weird, brightly colored dreams with his mom's face looming big in front of him and Mr. Way telling him he's won a scholarship to Norway, and he stirs and wakes uncomfortably throughout the day. At lunchtime he drags himself out of bed to swallow a handful of Tylenols and by later that night he manages to eat some yoghurt, forcing it down his sore throat.

He wakes up for what feels like every hour that night coughing, but goes to work the next day. During his break he sits with his head down on the table in the staff room for twenty minutes, until even Audrey starts to look a bit concerned and asks if he wants to go home. He says no, ends up going back out the front, even though the dull drone of the smoothie machines makes his head ache even more.

On Monday morning, he wakes up to the sound of his alarm and stands up, trying to make it towards the shower, before he sways dangerously on his feet and thinks, _fuck__it_. It's not like the school's going to call his parents if he doesn't show, anyway, and he crawls back into bed. Around four his body decides it's finally had enough sleep for him to function awake for a few hours, and he manages to catch up on some calculus before his brain wanders off again and he ends up watching Anastasia on his laptop. He's not really as overly invested in Disney as his family used to make him out to be, but whenever he was sick at home his mom would make him a bed on the couch and give him a choice between a bunch of children's movies, and it's kind of comforting, an old habit.

That night, Kara calls. Brendon manages to act vaguely normal for the first twenty-five seconds of the conversation, and then he breaks down coughing and Kara makes shocked, and then mindlessly soothing sounds down the line. "Oh, baby," she says. "Breathe deep, come on. It's okay."

When he can breathe again, he chokes out, "You infected me with your son's germs down the phone line."

"Maybe it's my superpower," she says, and he laughs weakly. "Brendon, you sound awful—"

"Thanks," he says. "I'm thinking I might audition for Broadway, you know. I'll give 'em the husky kind of appeal."

"Can't you—"

"Kara," he says, low, resigned. She sighs.

"Go see a doctor, at least," she tells him.

Brendon shifts uncomfortably, begins, "I really… can't."

"I'll call the family one, okay?" she says. "I'll sort something out." She sounds close to tears when she says, "Brendon, you know I can't – that Mom and Dad—"

"I know," he says tiredly, head falling back against his pillow. "I don't blame you." Kara doesn't say anything and Brendon can imagine her wide, anxious eyes and guilty expression, so he says, "You'll call Dr. Hayman?"

"First thing in the morning," she says. "I'll text you an appointment time, okay? He can just charge our account."

"Thanks," he mumbles.

"Sure thing, baby," she says. Brendon hates it when people use pet names around him, normally, but there's something so soft and _normal_about it when Kara does that he can't really find it in him to complain. "I'll tell him tomorrow after school, yeah? Are you going to school?"

"I have to," Brendon says. It's sort of integral to his plans that he graduates and gets into college. He hesitates and then says, "Only – I have detention until six-thirty, so—"

"_Brendon_," Kara says reprovingly, and if had any energy, he'd roll his eyes up to the ceiling. You'd think being kicked out of home ("Maybe," his dad had said gently, "Maybe some independence and time alone with God is what you need right now,") would stop people fussing about him getting detentions, but apparently not. "What _for_?"

"Uh, fighting," Brendon says.

"Not with – that Ross kid?" Kara asks. "Still? Really, haven't you two grown out of it yet?"

"Apparently not," Brendon says, and draws in a breath. "Look, Kara—"

"Yes," she says. "Have an early night, Brendon. Sleep well, okay?"

"Okay," he says.


	2. Chapter 2

School the next day kind of sucks, and by 'kind of', Brendon means 'totally'. He sleeps through most of his classes, occasionally rousing himself enough to give an incorrect answer to a disapproving teacher. He doesn't even rise to Ryan's deliberate comments during Biology about how, wow, someone's a little slow today, guess the little science genius was just faking it, huh. Brent looks at him with mild concern but when Brendon tells him that he's fine, Brent doesn't push it, just nods.

"Lots of homework," Brendon says weakly, voice rough and sore, and Brent nods. Brendon sort of wants to cry.

Between three and four he goes and sits in the library and attempts to get some homework done, throat still too sore for the idea of eating anything to be appealing. Kara texts him a bit before four, telling him she's got him an appointment at the doctor's for Thursday after school, which Brendon both appreciates and is annoyed by – going to get checked out is probably a good idea, but it's during a shift, and he's going to have to switch around the times. Maybe the new girl will swap with him, he thinks hopefully. Anyway, the prospect of feeling better is still a good one, and that and finishing a set of Chemistry problems (actually ahead of time, for once) is enough to put him in a slightly cheerful mood, and he's not quite at the wanting-to-die point when he heads to the little filing office.

Ryan is already there, sitting inside and stubbornly refusing to do anything until Brendon shows up, and Brendon rolls his eyes before flopping down in front of his current pile of sorting. Ryan is avoiding looking at him even more than usual, and Brendon's almost curious about it until he remembers suddenly, with a spike of embarrassment in his stomach, the last detention they had, Ryan's weight warm above his. It seems like a long time ago, his sickness blurring the passage of time and making the event itself almost dreamlike, but it's clear that Ryan is still furious or disgusted or both about it, and Brendon feels the helplessness crawling up his throat again.

He's not used to having passive kind of emotions around the other guy, or at least ones that make him more upset than furious, and it's an unpleasant feeling. Brendon ducks his head and they don't speak for the whole time, even though the air feels hot and thick, stifling. By the time detention's almost over Brendon feels angry and ugly, mouth twisting every time he happens to look at Ryan.

Once, he looks up to find Ryan watching him. Ryan goes to duck his head and then apparently thinks better of it, mouth curling into a sneer, and Brendon meets his gaze levelly, chin jutting out. God, Brendon hates him.

Eventually, Beckett (supervising today) comes in and tells them they can go and Brendon gets up, slamming his shoulder into Ryan's hard in a childish attempt to get out the door first. Ryan takes a step back, hissing an obscenity, and Brendon grants him an unpleasant grin over his shoulder.

Outside, he spots his bus at the bottom of the hill and goes to hurry for it, only to have Ryan somehow sneak in front of him and curl his foot around Brendon's ankle, twisting out and sending Brendon tripping forward. Brendon's head is fuzzy and sick, still, the world bright in front of him and his head throbbing, and he isn't in time to catch himself. Instead, he falls straight to the ground, grazing the heels of his hands hard along the concrete. He draws himself up into a sitting position and takes in a shuddering breath, about to pull out the (nonexistent; fuck, his head hurts) strength to launch himself upwards and into a fight, but Ryan isn't even looking at him.

A car pulls over to the curb and the Jon guy sticks his head out of the window, waving Ryan over. "Come on," he shouts, "Spence's already at the diner," and Ryan's face just, brightens. It's like he's forgotten that Brendon's there, grinning broadly, and he almost jogs to the car, jumping in.

Brendon hauls himself to his feet and watches the car drive off, despite himself. Ryan looked happy, he thinks, something small and tired and numb stuck in his throat, and he curls his fingers in the hem of his shirt before he turns and sets off in the direction of home. Who gives a fuck, he thinks, who needs people like Walker and Smith. Brendon's doing _fine_. 

Ryan likes shopping. Part of the reason why he works at the second-hand store is that it gives him a great chance at snatching clothes that he won't also have to see on two other people when taking a bus; there's a lot of fun, individual stuff to be found amongst the pile of clothes some people have outgrown.

The problem is just that Spencer takes shopping to a whole new level.

With Spencer, it isn't just one or three select stores; it's a long row of stores, one after the next, a shoe store thrown in between Gap and Miss Sixty. ("So you'll find something, too," Spencer said.) To make matters worse, Jon isn't there to support Ryan because he has some job interview at Starbucks. Well, Jon's always liked coffee – which begs the question why he'd want to work at Starbucks, but when Ryan voiced that question, Jon rolled his eyes and called him an indie snob.

"Seriously," Ryan complains when seven o'clock rolls around and Spencer shows no sign of tiring even though darkness is creeping up all around them. He's happily swinging two bags that contain three pair of shoes and a t-shirt. "Seriously, how can you possibly be straight?"

"I just am," Spencer says, unfazed. "I just happen to like boobs, thank you very much. If it's not my own, dicks just aren't very interesting."

"You don't know what you're missing," Ryan says.

Spencer gives him a shrewd look. "Oh, please. You don't, either. Have you even _kissed_ another guy?"

Well, not in a technical sense. He's kissed girls, though, and for all Spencer knows, he _could_have. "Sure," Ryan says haughtily, and he isn't thinking of Brendon stretched out under him.

"Really," Spencer says, dry, and he doesn't know about the Brendon thing, Ryan didn't tell him because it somehow slipped Spencer's mind after the movies, and Ryan wasn't about to bring it up. So, Spencer doesn't _know_; there is no reason for the amused twitch to his mouth.

"So what?" Ryan says.

"Nothing."

"You're laughing at me."

"Only on the inside," Spencer says earnestly.

"I hate you," Ryan says.

"You really don't." Spencer's grin is bright. "Let's grab a smoothie."

"What?" Ryan says. "Why?"

Spencer's expression is the equivalent of the 'duh' that Homer Simpson is so fond of. "Because I feel like one. And because it's right there, see?" He points at the shop sitting near the intersection of this street and the next one. Mid-November is drawing near, but it's already decorated with tinsel and golden bells.

"Um." Ryan shifts his weight, and suddenly, he's not so sure that Spencer really ever forgot about his evasion of the Friday detention recount. "You know that Brendon Urie works in there, right?"

"We've been there a few times, yeah." Spencer raises a brow. "Last time we went, you could hardly shut up about how great it was to order him around when he couldn't do anything to stop you, not while his shift manager was watching."

"I'm not in the mood for a smoothie," Ryan says. "The coffee shop where Tom works, it's not that much farther."

Spencer stops and sets his bags down in the middle of the sidewalk, crossing his arms. "Okay," he says, his smile pleasant. "Spill. Did he knee you in the balls? Did he smudge your eyeliner? Seriously, what _happened_?"

"He got turned on," Ryan says, then groans and covers his mouth.

For a long second, Spencer appears speechless. Then he bursts out laughing.

"Shut up," Ryan hisses. "It's not that funny."

"Oh, but it is," Spencer says, breathless. "The kid's Mormon, he's part of that group that always rags on how gay your eyeliner is. I mean, c'mon, you were probably fighting it out if your black eye is any indication, and then he, like, popped a boner? And you don't think it's _funny_?"

_I__maybe__sort__of__wanted__to__kiss__him,_ Ryan doesn't say, because it's not _true_. "Maybe," he says reluctantly.

Spencer's eyes narrow, and Spencer just knows him too well, can read him perfectly since they were six and seven and Ryan's dog died after being sick for a week, and all it took for Spencer to figure it out was one look at Ryan's face. "Maybe," Spencer repeats slowly.

Ryan turns towards the smoothie place, clutching his own bag in a tight grip. "It's funny, yeah," he says, voice firm now. "So, are we going to get a smoothie, or what?"

"Sure," Spencer says. He picks his bags back up, but he looks thoughtful, and Ryan can feel Spencer's questioning look boring into his cheek for most of the time it takes them to get there. Ryan keeps his chin up and his gaze straight ahead.

It's kind of anti-climatic to find that Brendon isn't working. 

"Rest," Dr. Hayman tells him with a grave voice. "You need a lot of rest, and I can prescribe you some antibiotics, of course, but what you really need is rest."

Brendon wonders if he really changed his shifts and came all the way out here, changing buses and waiting for ten minutes at the station while people gave him weird looks for sneezing every fifteen seconds, just to hear that he needs rest. He fucking _knows_ he needs rest. "Yeah, thanks," he says. "Antibiotics would be good."

The doctor sighs and bends over his desk to scribble down a few notes. The antibiotics will probably punch a hole into Brendon's budget; he wonders if he should get them at all. But then, if he's self-indulgent enough to buy contacts (even if they're the cheapest ones he could find on the internet, and he's wearing them for two months when it should be one, and he's also good at misplacing or destroying his glasses, so that might not even be _cheaper_), not buying medication is probably a little ridiculous.

He accepts the prescription and averts his eyes when Dr. Hayman tells him seriously that he really should catch some sleep. Brendon nods and stops at a pharmacy, on his way back to the smoothie shop.

Haley, a mostly nice girl even though she's in that wide-eyed I'm-new-here stage, waves at him from behind the counter. He kind of owes her since she agreed to stay longer today and in turn leave the latter part of her shift the next day to him. Brendon isn't looking forward to working after detention, after almost three hours with Ryan fucking Ross. Hopefully, the antibiotics will help so that it wasn't all in vain.

"Some guy asked for you," Haley tells him. She brushes a strand of hair back behind her ear, and Brendon supposes she'd be pretty, if he were into girls.

"Some guy?" he repeats, tying the apron around his waist. Maybe if he doesn't look at her, she'll get the hint and leave him to his misery. He'll just have to make sure he doesn't fall asleep on the counter.

"Brown hair, kind of cute. And his friend was wearing eyeliner. They said they went to your school." She smiles. "Asked why you weren't working today, so I told them you were at the doctor. Friends of yours?"

_Eyeliner_, Brendon's brain repeats a little numbly. "No," he says curtly, and thinks, _I__don't__have__any__friends_. He doesn't want any. 

For once, Brendon is already there when Ryan comes into the filing room, Wentz happily munching on some cookie while reading through a novel that's on the reading list for one of his classes. Brendon doesn't acknowledge Ryan's presence, and it grates on Ryan's nerves, being ignored.

On his way to his own pile of files, he accidentally kicks Brendon in the ankle. Brendon doesn't even react, and that's strange. Ryan pauses to take in his face, pale and exhausted in the grey light filtering through the dirty windows. So maybe that girl wasn't lying when she said he was visiting some doctor. Even if Spencer only asked because he was trying to chat her up, but whatever.

Ryan turns his back on Brendon and begins sorting. For the next hour, the only sound that fills the room are Brendon's occasional sniffles.

It's broken when Brendon snorts out a derogatory laugh. "Seriously, Ross, a D in Chem last year?"

Ryan looks over. Brendon is kneeling on the floor, a document open on his lap. "You know you're not allowed to do that," Ryan says slowly.

Brendon's smirk is infuriating, superior. "Oh, yeah, because you're such a stickler for rules, sure. Another D in Math? In 7th grade? I didn't think that was even possible. How did they let you get this far?"

"Yeah, because you're so brilliant in every single subject." Ryan's fingers twitch with the need to do something; make that smirk fall right off Brendon's face. "English, in particular. I still can't quite believe you managed to read Camus all by yourself. Or did you have your mom read it to you?"

Brendon's eyes narrow, mouth opening for another comment, and before Ryan knows what he's doing, he's already crossed the space with the thought of shutting Brendon up the most prominent idea in his head, bright and furious, and Wentz is right next door so they'll have to be quiet, really quiet. Ryan fists one hand in Brendon's stupid ugly t-shirt and pulls him in, lifts his other hand to punch him in the jaw, only that somehow it ends up curled around the back of Brendon's neck to drag him into a rough kiss.

Brendon's mouth parts under his, in protest or surprise or something else. Ryan doesn't really care, just reads it as an invitation and slides his tongue inside, pushing at Brendon's chest to get him to lie down.

Brendon surges up against him, bites down on Ryan's tongue. Ryan pulls back sharply, tasting the thick tang of blood, only to have Brendon follow him, draw Ryan's bottom lip into his mouth, suck on it until Ryan is sure it's red and swollen, and still he doesn't stop it. Instead, he even twists closer, forces Brendon's legs apart until he fits in between them, raking his nails down the back of Brendon's neck.

Brendon turns his head away and groans softly, and.

And they both freeze.

For long seconds, neither of them moves. Then Ryan tears himself away, stands breathless in the middle of the room while Brendon is staring up at him, his eyes wide and helpless.

Ryan swallows. "This never fucking happened," he says tightly.

It takes only a moment for Brendon to chuckle darkly. "What, you think I feel like bragging to the school about how you fucking _molested_ me?"

"Not the way I see it," Ryan says. He consciously unclenches his hands. "The way I see it, you were the one who got so turned on you couldn't even keep in the cheap porn movie noises."

Brendon raises his head, his gaze sharp and the curl of his mouth smug. "You'd know about cheap porn movies, I guess."

"And you wouldn't, since that religion of yours probably thinks anything sex-related before marriage is a sin. Hey, and it's not too happy about same-sex stuff either, is it?" Ryan keeps his tone flat and dry, cutting, and he sees Brendon formulate a reply, about to spit it out when there's a knock on the door.

"Boys?" Wentz pokes his head in.

Ryan releases a breath and nods. "Sorry," he says. "Just discussing the right way to do this… sorting thing."

His back to Wentz, Brendon sticks his tongue out at Ryan and that's just, oh God, wow, how can one person possibly be this childish, there should be laws against it. "Okay," Wentz says, retreating.

Ryan crouches back down at his own pile of records, and they don't speak for the rest of the time. Whenever Ryan glances over out of the corners of his eyes, Brendon's head is bent over his work.

The moment Wentz tells them their time's up, Brendon is up and out of the door. Ryan stays for another moment to discuss potential college courses for Creative Writing. Ryan listens to Wentz's suggestions and tries not to show that he's feeling itchy and overheated.

By the time he leaves the school, Brendon is long since gone. There are a few people at the bus station, but he's not among them.

Not that Ryan cares, God. He wipes a hand across his forehead and turns the other way, and he isn't thinking about Brendon's mouth on his. 

Brendon somehow manages to last through work without blowing up at anyone (especially a customer, which, shit, that could get him fired _so__fast_), but then he gets home and almost immediately slams his fist into the wall, as if he wasn't feeling shitty enough already. He shakes his sore knuckles out and swears and hops around the room on one foot for a while, furious and twitchy in his own skin and fuck, he'd wanted to break something, not himself. Miracle of miracles, there's some ice in the freezer so he takes it out and wraps it in a dirty dish towel and knots it around his fist so that the ice stays cold against his knuckles. Then he kicks stupidly at his crappy little dining table and smashes a glass in his sink.

God, he's so – he can't think properly, seething with a red-hot fury that rises up in him. He puts on the angriest Taking Back Sunday album he can find and stomps his way around his apartment until his neighbor pounds in a particularly irritated way against the wall. Then he turns it down and sinks down to the floor, resting his head against the wall, glaring at the ceiling.

Just, the fucking hypocrite, he thinks. Making a big, dumb deal over Brendon getting – whatever, and then _attacking_Brendon (with his _mouth_, Brendon thinks a little hysterically) out of nowhere. Brendon would feel better about it, honestly, if he hadn't just – if he'd been able to – like, control himself, or whatever. It's too hard, it's too hard now, he can't concentrate on anything, not with Ryan fierce and hot against him. He'd made fun of the noises Brendon had made, but Brendon remembers Ryan's rough breath, the ragged swell of his chest.

Fuck, fuck. Brendon looks down at his hands, the tea towel wrapped clumsily around his right fist, and tries not to imagine Ryan under them. 

Friday night is movie night, and Ryan can't miss movie night. He takes his time getting there, though, and by the time he's arrived Spencer and Jon are already settled on the mattress with a cardboard box of pizza open on the carpet next to them, watching I Am Legend. Ryan's almost glad; usually he hates this movie, it freaks him out and he doesn't get why they have to kill the goddamn dog, but he appreciates the idea of a little bit of distraction right now.

"Hey," Spencer says, when Ryan walks in. "How was detention?"

"Fine," Ryan says curtly. His mouth feels swollen and red; he hopes it isn't noticeable, still. It shouldn't be. Not after all this time. Still, he feels twitchy and exposed and he slides down next to Jon and keeps his eyes fixed on the screen, doesn't look Spencer in the eye.

Spencer's quiet for a moment, and then he says, "Brendon still that bad?"

"Always is," Ryan says. Onscreen, there is the sound of howling and Ryan shudders and presses his nose against Jon's shoulder, hiding his face as best he can. Spencer looks away, seemingly satisfied for now, and Ryan surprises himself by drifting off to sleep before the end. It's not that late but he feels exhausted, mind tumbling over with rambling thoughts, and he falls asleep halfway through a mental preparation of stuff to throw in Brendon's face the next time he sees him. 

Saturday night, Ryan goes to a party with Jon and Spencer, which actually means him and Spencer leaning against a wall and poking fun from a distance at Jon trying to talk casually to Cassie. It's a pretty boring party, really, the kind that looks cool (lots of people, loud music, no adults to be found) but actually turns out to be fairly shitty. After a while, though, Spencer turns to look at him with a serious expression, eyes clear.

"Alright," he says, close to Ryan's ear so that he can talk over the music. "What's going on?"

Ryan blinks at him, unease stirring in his stomach. "What?" he asks, eyes wide.

"That girl," Spencer says, nodding over to a pretty brunette girl in the corner of the room, "Has been like – eyeing you for the past half hour, and usually you would have abandoned me twenty minutes ago."

"Yeah, well," Ryan says. "Didn't feel like being a shitty friend tonight."

"Ryan," Spencer says, and Ryan's mouth twists.

"_What_?" he demands. "I just don't feel like it! Jesus!"

Spencer blinks at him and Ryan makes a huffy noise, twists away from him and makes his way outside. He goes to the front, where the party has mostly stayed away for fear of attracting the neighbors' wrath, sits on the porch with his shoulders hunched up and glares at the night sky.

After a while, Spencer sits down next to him. He nudges Ryan's shoulder and Ryan nudges back, maybe a little too hard to be friendly. Spencer rolls his eyes next to him – Ryan's not looking, so he doesn't exactly _see_, but he can tell – and Ryan sighs.

"Sorry," he says.

"It's cool," Spencer tells him. "You'll tell me if something's going really wrong, right?"

"Yeah." Ryan exhales loudly. "Yeah, I just—"

"I get it," Spencer says simply.

"Thanks," Ryan says. "Thanks, I'll. I just need to sort some stuff out."

"Okay," Spencer says. Ryan tilts his head towards Spencer, leans against him, and closes his mouth against _I__just__really__fucking__hate__Brendon__Urie_ because that would be a bit too obvious, even if it is true. 

The weekend seems to go too fast for Brendon's liking; he takes on an extra shift on Sunday, works all day both days, and while the work is mind-numbing and repetitive enough to stop him from thinking about anything else except _I__am__so__bored_, it also means the weekend seems over before he's really begun. At least the antibiotics are kicking in enough that Brendon can eat more easily, and is sleeping through the night again, but he's behind on homework and closer to yet another detention, and by Monday morning he's in a really unpleasant mood. He's even rude in Music, which makes him feel worse, because Mr. Stump is his favourite teacher for his favourite subject, and Brendon really doesn't need anotherperson to write him off. Especially not someone who Brendon needs recommendations from to get into college.

He's still feeling vaguely guilty about it when he walks to his locker after lunch, and when someone bumps into him and starts toppling sideways, Brendon reaches out without thinking. "Oh, sorry," he begins, and then the person wrenches away from his hands and Brendon glares at Ryan, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Watch where you're going," Ryan snarls.

"Oh, yeah, sorry," Brendon says, eyes narrowed. "Forgot it was your corridor, and we're to skulk along the sidelines and leave it clear for your strutting purposes—"

"God," Ryan cuts in clearly, voice thick with disdain. "You're so not even worth the time," and then the guy with him, Spencer or whatever, puts a hand on his arm and they walk off together. Brendon's hands are trembling when he gets to his locker, and he screws up his combination three times.

Monday is bearable, though, Monday is okay; it's Tuesday that Brendon really can't stand the idea of. Ryan isn't in Biology, which gives Brendon faint hope until he notices that Ryan's friend isn't either, and that – okay, that makes it more likely that Ryan's skipping. Brendon just hopes that it's for the whole day, and not just the class.

No such luck; they arrive at detention at pretty much the same time, approaching at opposite ends of the same corridor. For a moment Brendon thinks, a little wildly, that it's like a scene from an old cowboy movie, both of them reaching for their guns with the thump of their boots on the dirt, and then he blinks and decides to check the dosage on his antibiotics.

Wentz wanders around the corner and calls, "You know what to do, boys – I brought some more files in for you to get started on once you finish the last batch. No fighting, no biting!" and then he cackles his stupid, braying laugh and Ryan even _smiles_a little bit, stupid suck-up.

Brendon pushes his way into the filing room first and blinks; by 'some more files', Wentz apparently meant piles and piles of boxes, that take up at least half the room. Brendon sighs and goes and sits back in his corner, and after a moment Ryan sits kind of close to him, in the small space that's left between the boxes. Brendon swivels, obstinately turning his back on Ryan and the shuffling noise behind him tells him that Ryan's followed suit.

They work silently for nearly an hour. Brendon sorts the dumb files almost on auto-pilot, hyper conscious of keeping his back perfectly straight, not wanting anything about him to indicate anything else to Ryan. God, if he just hadn't kissed _back_– and then he shuts off that line of thought really fast. It was Ryan's idea, anyway, he thinks coldly, he was the one who – whatever.

After a while, though, the endless monotony of his task gets to him and he slumps a little bit, nearing the end of his pile. The air in here is so thick and hard to breathe, and Brendon finds himself smothering yawns almost constantly, huge gaping ones that make his jaw crack. Behind him, Ryan makes small, impatient noises that Brendon's sure are deliberately calculated to piss him off, and he grits his teeth and resolutely does not react.

After a while, he gets down to the end of his pile (_Young,__Sarah_), and says, swivelling around, "I need more—"

"Whatever," Ryan says snidely, and wow, Brendon thinks, real mature. He restrains himself to just rolling his eyes because he doesn't really want to start anything, not today. He'll be sluggish anyway with the remnants of his illness and antibiotics anyway, he thinks, and leaves it at that, rather than: _I__really__don't__want__to__touch__him_.

He has to, though, to reach the files, because Ryan seems obstinately stuck on not moving to help Brendon in the slightest. He moves forward as little as possible and stretches across Ryan to reach for the closest binder of files, legs pressed against Ryan's back, and it's then that Ryan looks up. Brendon thinks absently that judging by the expression on Ryan's face he's about to say something rude, but he's obviously miscalculated where Brendon would be because his gaze lands straight on Brendon's mouth, and they're too close.

They freeze, for a moment, and then Brendon kind of rolls down at the same time Ryan reaches up and they're kissing again, Ryan's hands clenched in Brendon's shirt, dragging him closer, closer towards him, mouth hot and frantic on Brendon's. Brendon loses his balance and slips down, kicking his carefully ordered pile askew (_damn_it). He can't quite bring himself to get pissed at Ryan about it just yet, though, or at least not until he can work out a way to make it undoubtedly into Ryan's fault, so he just pushes closer, hands bracing his weight on either side of Ryan's body and slips his tongue into Ryan's mouth.

Ryan doesn't bite, not like Brendon did on Friday (shit, what are they _doing_), and it's Ryan that makes the first noise this time, a weird, gasping sound when Brendon's mouth slides off of his and down his cheek, sloppy. Ryan says, "Fuck, fuck," and then he surges upwards, twisting and shoving with violent, slippery force until he's rolled them over (and, whoops, there goes the files Ryan had spent the past hour sorting) and Brendon's pinned underneath him again. Later, Brendon thinks, later he'll find some way to right this, but now he thinks if they shoved at each other any more they might possibly knock over one of the carelessly balanced piles of boxes, and that would be_really_bad.

Ryan forces a leg between Brendon's and he's half-hard already, Brendon can feel him, and he laughs soft and cruel against Ryan's mouth, pulls away long enough to ask, breathlessly, "Sorry, _who's_the hypocrite?"

"Shut up," Ryan snarls, and then he's grinding his hips down against Brendon's and Brendon does what he says, but only because Ryan's mouth is on his again, biting at his lip and then sucking it into his mouth, hot and forceful and Brendon bets Ryan likes to take control (could have told anyone that already, judging by what an arrogant ass the guy is) but he's not going to let that happen. He gives back as good as he gets, rolling his hips up against Ryan's and there's nothing elegant or comforting about this, the two of them rubbing off against each other on the filthy floor, but that's okay, Brendon doesn't need that.

He can feel it building in him, though, little darts of pleasure up his spine every time Ryan rubs their dicks together through the (uncomfortable) denim of their jeans, and Brendon pants, tries not to thrash on the floor beneath him, or do anything particularly dumb. It's a little uncomfortable, having to constantly watch himself for stupid sounds or faces that Ryan can use against him but he keeps enough of an eye on Ryan (red mouth and rumpled hair and dark eyes, blown pupils) to store up some counterattacks, just in case.

Ryan is making these rough, ugly grunting noises, pushing down harder and harder against Brendon, almost painful, and it's then, of course, that the sound of footsteps rings through the corridor outside there room and Brendon shoves Ryan off of him, scrambling to sit in his corner with his back to Ryan, and the door. He peeks over his shoulder and Ryan is shoving his hands uselessly through his hair, rubbing his swollen mouth against his sleeve, and when Brendon looks over at him he makes an awful, sneering face at him.

Wentz sticks his head around the door then, says, "Everything alright?"

"Yup," Ryan mumbles to the floor, head ducked down. Brendon peeks over his shoulder as best he can, pressing his mouth against his shoulder, and thankfully, _thankfully_Wentz just nods and turns away. He leaves the door open, though, and neither Ryan nor Brendon move. Brendon's so hard, God, and his hands are trembling again, but he focuses on trying to get his pile back into order.

He shoves out of the door before Ryan again when they leave. Outside, on the pavement, Ryan shouts behind him, "Hey! Hey, _asshole_!" but Brendon just hurries up the hill, hands in the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunched. Maybe, he thinks vindictively, he'll get Ryan sick, too. That'd show him. 

Brendon kicks the door to his apartment – the door to his _dump_ – shut with the heel of his foot and tosses his backpack on the floor. He's not— Oh God, what the hell just_happened_ with— Stupid fucking Ryan _Ross_, how _dare_ he just—

Just.

Just suck every last bit of control from Brendon, reduce him to a wanting mess that can't even _pretend_ not to want Ryan's hips against his, not to want Ryan's mouth and his tongue and his body hot and hard above Brendon, fingers tight around Brendon's wrist, and even as Brendon mutters curses under his breath, he slides one hand down his pants and sinks to the floor.

This was not supposed to happen. Not… not with _Ryan_ _Ross_, of all people.

Maybe if someone else had touched him in the last century or however long it's been, but no one did and Brendon's always been weak when it came to needing physical comfort. Ryan isn't offering comfort.

Brendon curls his hand around his painfully hard dick and runs his thumb along the underside. He nearly comes right on the spot, has been too close for hours, stupid fucking Wentz for barging in right then even though it spared Brendon the embarrassment of coming while Ryan was watching him. Spared him having to watch Ryan come into his pants while grinding himself down against Brendon. _Fuck_.

Brendon squeezes and twists his wrist, jerks his hips up into the touch and sees bright spots as warmth floods his hand.

He lies motionless for long moments, hand still shoved down his jeans and the carpet prickly through the worn cotton of his t-shirt; blinks blindly up at the ceiling and tries not to cry from the embarrassment of it. 

He manages to calm down while making himself some pancakes. Brendon isn't a very good cook, but pancakes were always his comfort food, something about the rhythmic process of spreading the batter to cover the entire bottom of the frying pan, wait for the first side to be honey-brown before turning it over. It's a bitch to make pancakes for seven people, but sometimes, when they all had breakfast together Sunday after church, Brendon would join his mother in the kitchen, and the scent was the same greasy, warm smell that surrounds him now.

He transfers the first pancake to a plate, spreads sugar over it and eats it standing up, leaning against the counter. He changed his underwear so that it doesn't stick to his skin anymore. He only has four clean pairs of boxers left; he needs to make a trip to the Laundromat fairly soon.

It's Ryan's fault that it will have to be a day sooner now. Ryan is the one who initiated the whole of it, or at least Brendon is pretty sure because it was _Ryan's_ gaze that dropped down to his mouth, _Ryan_ who shoved him onto his back.

Brendon was just along for the ride, swept up by his hormones and the fact that this is easily the closest he's come to having actual sex. He knows Ryan isn't a virgin; the first time he slept with a girl, back in – 9th grade? 10th grade? – his friends wouldn't stop clapping him on the back for a full day at school, as if he'd done something great and admirable.

Whatever, really. So Ryan's cheap. Brendon feels a little cheap, too.

He pushes the thought away and takes another bite of his pancake. The sugary sweetness lodges right into his brain, and by the time he's finished it off, he's calmed down enough to think about picking up his guitar and fooling around with some melody he's come up with during yesterday's shift.

Anything to keep him from dying of boredom. 

Ryan's dad forgot to give him his allowance, yet again, so when the store manager called Ryan the day before and asked him to take over the late shift on Tuesday and close up afterwards, he was more than happy to accept.

He's been regretting that decision for the better part of an hour. At least his erection is long since gone, and he doesn't think his lips really look as swollen and bruised as they feel.

Ryan numbs his mind by checking the dates of clothes, sticking an orange point on every item that's been with them for longer than three months. Thanks to his dad, he's gotten a lot of practice in the denial department.

And yet, somehow, it's a lot easier to ignore a bottle of vodka hidden behind a row of books than it is to forget about one of Brendon's legs wrapped around his waist, the utterly graceless way they rutted against each other.

Ryan has no idea how he's going to make it through another hour before he's finally allowed to lock up.

At the end of his shift, though, Ryan finds himself halfway to Spencer's house before he's even made a conscious decision of where he's going. For a moment he hesitates, but Spencer never asks questions, not if Ryan needs him not to. Secretly, he's also pretty sure that being at Spencer's place will be a pretty good deterrent to jerking off. He's _not_going to get off to the memory of Brendon Urie, Jesus.

Spencer opens the door and looks at Ryan warily, which makes Ryan think he's been watching his approach through the window or something. Ryan looks back at him, evenly as he can, and Spencer sighs, says, "Come on, then. Mom's made lasagne."

"Cool," Ryan says.

Spencer looks sideways at him. "You gonna tell me what happened?" Ryan shifts uncomfortably and Spencer sighs, rolls his eyes, says, "Yeah, thought not."

"Nothing happened," Ryan says.

"Shut up, Ryan," Spencer says tiredly. "Don't tell me if you don't want to but don't give me the bullshit, either." 

Wednesday is a whole day of class without Brendon Urie, but Ryan's on edge the whole day anyway, jumping and looking over his shoulder when he sees a flash of dark hair. He doesn't even know what to do – ignore him or pick a fight or say something deliberately calculated to make Brendon get that pinched, furious expression, and he can't remember which of these is the normal thing to do.

He doesn't see Brendon at all, though, and he supposes that's why he's feeling fine when he leaves History that afternoon to go to the bathroom. The chances of running into Brendon there, after all, are not exactly high, but he's barely walked in before he's frozen, his last footstep cold and echoing around the walls.

Brendon's slumped between two of the sinks, head leaning on the mirror and eyes closed. He's resting each hand on a sink and as Ryan watches he pushes his weight up on them for a second, feet dangling in the air, before dropping back down again. It looks like an automatic gesture, something he's not even thinking about.

Not that Ryan gets much of a chance to observe; the door bangs shut and Brendon opens his eyes at the same time, and then they're staring at each other. Brendon's face goes kind of white, and Ryan wonders, something ugly and cruel stirring in his chest, if he's had a big gay crisis overnight, if he's _prayed_and _cried_and talked to his precious fucking family.

He opens his mouth to say something to that effect but Brendon beats him to it, saying, "Fuck. Off." His voice is colder than Ryan could possibly have imagined it, clear and calculated and not angry in the slightest, just full of an immeasurable hate.

Ryan turns on his heel and walks out, because he was either going to start a fight or kiss him, and he honestly doesn't know what would be worse. 

The Problem – and yes, Brendon's thought about it and it's definitely The Problem, capitalized and all, but not hysterical enough to use only capitals, and it's maybe a little pathetic how much time Brendon wasted thinking about it, okay, but whatever. So, anyway, The Problem is that it's more than just slightly unfair that the closest Brendon's ever came to having actual, full-out sex with mutually achieved orgasms and all, that the closest he came to it just happened to be with Ryan Ross. Because for all that he hates the kid's guts, Ryan's weight above him had felt _good_, and Brendon maybe sort of wouldn't mind doing it again, and yeah, Brendon is thinking about The Problem kind of a lot. Sometimes with his hand around his dick.

Which is a whole new level of pathetic in and of itself.

Brendon doesn't sleep well Tuesday night, so when he runs into Ryan eventually on Wednesday, after keeping half an eye out for him all day, he's just exhausted and frustrated enough not to listen to his hormones. He doesn't expect Ryan to leave him alone just like that, but maybe it's the universe's way of making up for some of the shit it's been throwing at him lately.

Thursday is worse, somehow. Brendon makes it through Biology by keeping his head down, careful not to look at Ryan's hands and remember them wrapped around his—ah, fuck. He breaks one of the fragile glasses they get for the microscopes, something that _never_ happens to Brendon. When Brent asks if he's okay, Brendon throws him a glare and tells him to mind his own fucking business. He has no use for pity.

In English, Ryan spends the entire class sucking up to Beckett, and he doesn't look at Brendon even once. Not that Brendon wants him to.

He heads for the smoothie shop straight after classes. When he gets home that night, his hands smell of bananas, but he's too tired to take a shower. He falls straight into bed, and for the first time since that Godawful Tuesday detention, it takes him only minutes to sink into a deep, restful sleep. He doesn't dream. 

From the moment Ryan enters the record room, he feels suffocated and itchy. Brendon is already sitting in his own corner, cross-legged as he straightens out the pile they knocked off-balance last time. He doesn't look up, doesn't acknowledge Ryan's presence in any way.

Ryan huffs out an impatient breath and goes to sit in his own corner of the room.

They work in silence for what feels like hours, but when Ryan glances at his watch, it's actually no more than forty-five minutes that passed. The itchy feeling in Ryan's limbs hasn't subsided, has, in fact, even grown until he feels restless, bouncing his leg while he reaches for another record, _Kent,__Jeanie_, and God, who in their right mind names a kid Jeanie, like the one in the bottle, pink lace and dumb blonde hair. Ryan pulls a face and tosses the pile onto the 1979 pile, glancing over. Brendon's back is a straight line, and there's a hole in his t-shirt, right below his left shoulder blade.

"There's a hole in your t-shirt," Ryan says, before he can stop himself.

Brendon slowly turns his head to look at him, face devoid of any expression. "So?" he says.

Ryan gives him an edged smile, and he feels better already, not quite as restless. "So you might consider throwing it away. Or just tell your mom to stitch it up, or whatever it is you do."

"Shut," Brendon begins, pointed. "The fuck. Up."

Ryan leans forward, still smiling. "Or?"

"Or I'll tell Wentz there was a tragic accident, and you unfortunately fell into one of the cabinets and hit your head so hard you have a concussion. Concussion, Ross. Three syllables." Brendon tilts his head, light slanting into the room at just the right angle to turn the circles under his eyes into dark smudges. "One of those awesome words that keeps you up at night."

"Well, _you_ sure as hell aren't doing the trick," Ryan says. He wants to take it back a moment later because okay, they're not talking about this, it never fucking happened. Then he sees that Brendon flushes darkly and blinks, and feels a thrill of cruel satisfaction. "What's the problem?" Ryan asks sweetly. "Feeling guilty because rolling around floors with guys isn't in line with what your high and mighty God up there says?"

"_You_ are my fucking problem," Brendon says, then laughs a little hollowly, as if it's some kind of inside joke.

"Oh, really?" Ryan raises a brow and shuffles forward, closer. "What a coincidence, because guess what, you're my problem, too."

He's about to reach out – to hit Brendon, or to grab his arms and pull him in, Ryan doesn't even _know_ anymore, all he knows is that his head is buzzing with an excited kind of white noise – when Wentz opens the door without any warning at all.

Ryan flinches away guiltily, and Brendon jerks back. (Was he about to move in? Ryan shouldn't care, _God_.)

"What's going on?" Wentz asks, glancing back and forth between them.

"Nothing," Brendon says at the same time as Ryan does. Their eyes connect for a moment, hold before they both skitter away.

"Right," Wentz says, dripping sarcasm. For all that Ryan really likes him, he kind of wishes he'd just go away right now.

"We were just," Ryan pauses and smiles up at Wentz. "Just discussing the right way to sort these. De Meron, Pascal. Brendon says it's under M, because the 'de' is a title. I think it should go under D."

"Hmm." Wentz narrows his eyes and Ryan, and Ryan gazes back as blankly and innocently as he manages. He's ignoring the incredulous look Brendon throws his way. Then, suddenly, Wentz shakes his head, a grin spreading over his face. "Oh, you know what? Have it your way. Put it under D, and I'll leave the door open."

"Of course," Ryan says. He moves into his own corner, turns his back on Brendon and waits for the sound of Wentz receding footsteps before allowing his shoulders to sag. He doesn't glance over at Brendon. Not even once for the whole remainder of their detention. 

Weekends, Brendon has quickly realized, actually suck. They're meant to be this whole break thing but instead it's just working and doing homework and falling asleep again, and then it's Monday and once again Brendon feels like he's on his tiptoes trying to tilt his head above the water. And shit, no wonder he's so bad at English.

He feels a little bit better when on Sunday afternoon he comes home to find three Tupperware containers strategically placed behind a potted plant that wasn't there when he left. He laughs despite himself, reaching down to pick them up and pull off the post-it note attached (_yeah,__yeah,__I__know__you're__a__"vegetarian".__chicken__soup__for__the__sick__boy,__xoxo.__Kara_).

Vegetarianism can wait, anyway, he thinks cheerfully as he heats up one of the meals. Kara makes the best chicken soup in the world, apart from their mom, and she has a habit of sneaking around and dropping food off when she knows he won't be there (when she can say truthfully to the rest of the family that she hasn't seen him).

He puts the potted plant in the middle of the table; it's not that decorative, green and leafy rather than pretty, but Brendon thinks there's a better chance of him keeping this alive than there is for the fish he was considering for a while. He pours a glass of water into the soil and says, "Sorry, dude. The desert probably isn't your favourite place to live, huh?"

The plant doesn't respond. Brendon pats the top leaves in sympathy anyway and tells it, "Don't worry. You and me won't be here much longer." 

Generally, Ryan doesn't even notice Brendon in English. He didn't even bother ignoring him properly – English is Ryan's favourite subject, and Brendon being in his class didn't even matter. He didn't let the guy spoil it for him. Only apparently he's started to fail at even that, because first thing Monday morning, Ryan's sitting halfway towards the back with Spencer and all he's aware of is Brendon on the opposite side of the class, staring out the window and clearly paying no attention whatsoever. He's twirling his hair, for fuck's sake, and Ryan thought it wasn't possible to feel any more disdain for the guy but hey, there you go.

Disdain or not, it's distracting, and about halfway through the class Spencer starts to give him weird looks again. Ryan says, "Sorry, didn't sleep so well last night," which isn't exactly a lie (he didn't sleep very well all weekend, actually, and when he did up he woke up hard and furious) and turns back to his work. He pretends he's fascinated by his notes on Ken Kesey for the rest of the class.

In Biology on Tuesday, Brent is away (Brent's actually a pretty nice kid; Ryan has no idea how Brendon conned Brent into partnering with him) and Brendon still finishes the experiment before everyone else. He smirks at Ryan when he saunters back to his seat to get a head start on the write-up and Ryan scowls and then walks past with his beaker full of dirty water, stumbles on his way past Brendon's desk and slops some of it on Brendon's work, a puddle forming in the middle of Brendon's carefully neat handwriting.

Brendon shoots to his feet, chair rocking aside, fists clenched, but Hurley is watching them with a beady eyes and in the end he just says, coldly, "Watch it."

"Sorry," Ryan says breezily. "Accident. Hope it's not ruined."

Ryan gets to detention first, and picks up the pile he'd been working on last Friday. It's nearly done and he busies himself with it so he doesn't have to look up when Brendon walks in. His back stiffens when Brendon walks in anyway, but he doesn't look up, not until Brendon walks straight to him and kicks at the pile of papers, sending them fluttering all over the room. Ryan looks up in gaping astonishment and fury.

"Sorry," Brendon says cheerfully. "Accident. Hope it's not ruined."

"Fuck, I hate you," Ryan says, scrambling to his feet. He doesn't like Brendon looming over him and he straightens up, trying to glare down as much as he can with the few scant centimeters he's got over Brendon.

"Aw, shucks," Brendon says. "And I'm just so fond of you."

"God," Ryan says, narrowing his eyes. "It's like you're—"

"Yeah, whatever," Brendon says, and then fists his hands in the material of Ryan's shirt and tugs him down to kiss him. Ryan flails for a moment despite himself, hands flapping awkwardly in the air, and then he settles, putting them around Brendon's waist and tugging him closer, hands slipping up under the material of his shirt.

They break away, and Ryan says, breathing raggedly, "So we're just—"

"Whatever," Brendon says again, too quickly. "Like I even give a shit—"

"Fine, then," Ryan says, glancing quickly to check the door's closed, and they're kissing again. They sink to the floor and Brendon sits half in Ryan's lap, fingers just tight enough in Ryan's hair for it to be kind of uncomfortable, and he rocks his hips down against Ryan's cock deliberately, laughing soft and mean when Ryan gasps. He does it a few more times but then gets a slightly frustrated expression, and Ryan gets the feeling Brendon can't get very much friction against his own dick in this position.

He bites at Brendon's mouth, nails scratching down hard through the cotton of his t-shirt, and Brendon pushes him down to the floor. Brendon's weight is hot and heavy, pressed all along him, but when he spreads his legs a bit Brendon settles between them and that's better.

Much, much better, panting into each other's mouths and grinding against each other. Brendon's got good rhythm, Ryan thinks a little stupidly, and he rolls his hips down again and again, and Ryan can feel his hands trembling a little bit in Ryan's hair. He mumbles against Brendon's mouth, "You gonna cry as well, Urie?" but Brendon doesn't understand, just gives Ryan a confused, pissed off look and bites at the line of his jaw.

Ryan has a feeling that he's not going to last very long, so it's more of a relief than anything else when Brendon's rhythm gets jerky, short, hurried jerks of his hips and then he makes a strangled groan, mouth slipping off of Ryan's and trailing wetly down the side of his cheek. He's still for a moment, Ryan rocking awkwardly underneath him, and then he goes to roll off and really, what an asshole. Ryan says, "Fuck you, no," and curls his legs around Brendon's knees, pulling him down close and rubbing himself off as quickly as he can. It doesn't take long before he's making involuntary, anxious noises, pushing himself up, the floor hard against his back.

"You're too fucking loud," Brendon hisses, and kisses Ryan again, mouth hot and stifling over Ryan's. Ryan moans into it, can't help himself, and then comes, black spots dancing across his vision.

His legs fall weakly to the side and Brendon gets off of him almost immediately, standing up and moving to his side of the room. He looks a little bit wobbly on his feet, Ryan notices with satisfaction, and he sits up carefully, cursing the disadvantage he's got. Brendon's had time to recover; which reminds him—

"Hey," he says. "Nice stamina, man. Really impressive."

Brendon looks at him and, as quietly as possible, starts to make breathy noises. "Oh, oh," he moans, eyes rolling up into his head. "Oh, fuck, yes, oh, please—"

"Shut up," Ryan says tightly, jaw clenched. Brendon ducks his head and turns his back and, to Ryan's surprise, does just that.

They don't talk for the rest of the time. It seems to last much longer than usual, and Ryan tries not to squirm too much, his underwear gross and sticky. When Beckett tells them they can go, they set off in different directions outside, shoulders hunched, and neither of them look back. 

Spencer has a crush on the smoothie girl. Either that, or he can see right through Ryan's bullshit about just needing to work some stuff out by himself, at the moment. Ryan really hopes it's the smoothie girl.

"Tell me again why you suddenly feel a constant craving for smoothies?" he asks. He has his hands in his pockets, and okay, yes, he's maybe acting a little sullenly, dragging his feet as he follows Spencer. So what? After what was no more than six hours of sleep last night – and feels like three – he thinks he's entitled. Fucking Brendon Urie, and oh, wow, Brendon's fucking _mouth_.

Ryan bites the inside of his cheek and deliberately doesn't glance into the shop to see if Brendon's working.

"It's not a constant craving," Spencer answers absently. He makes no secret of checking out who's behind the counter.

"This is the second time in, what, two weeks? Since when are you into vitamins?"

Brendon fucking _Urie_ isn't worth it.

"I don't mind them if they taste good," Spencer replies, a little lamely. He pushes the door to the shop open, Christmas bells tinkling, and Ryan finally allows himself to glance over at the counter.

He's not prepared for the instant surge of heat at the sight of Brendon. Shit. Ryan's cheeks feel warm and obvious, as if one look at his face was all it would take for Spencer to know just what happened during the last detention. And it's not that Ryan suddenly thinks Brendon is attractive or anything like that; he's wearing a stupid apron in cheerful green (what, because the smoothies are healthy, or something?), and there are dark shadows under his eyes, and his hair is mussed and he's wearing his glasses instead of the contacts and they clash with the color of the apron. His mouth, though. Ryan maybe has a thing for Brendon's mouth.

Brendon doesn't notice him immediately. He's talking to Spencer's smoothie girl, apparently explaining something about one of the gleaming electronic devices they have standing around behind the counter. It's only a few seconds after the sound of the doorbells has faded that he does look up.

Ryan is mostly certain that Brendon's eyes widen for just an unguarded moment before his expression smoothes over.

"Hey," Spencer says. His smile is startlingly bright and honest, aimed more at the girl than at Brendon. Ryan breathes out a sigh of relief and meets Brendon's gaze for no more than a second before he looks away first.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Part**____**3/9**_

It's been an exceptionally slow Wednesday so far. Brendon supposes it's because tomorrow is Thanksgiving, but he's not thinking about that. It'll be a normal day of work for him tomorrow, and he isn't thinking about his mother's turkey and the whole family grouped around the table, isn't thinking about laughter and warmth and the sound of forks scraping over porcelain.

At least he'll have the whole Friday off. He could use the money, but just the thought of a whole day to himself, nothing to do but sleep and eat and sleep some more, it's enough to make his knees go weak. Three hours more today, and then eight tomorrow. He can do that.

"Brendon?" Haley asks, and he blinks tiredly and pulls himself back into the task at hand.

"Yeah," he says, "sorry. Anyway, in order to clean this, you just lift the lid and take this thing here out, right? Just use water, no soap or anything, or it'll make the smoothies taste funny." He's distantly aware of the doorbell, but he clicks the filter back into place before he looks up.

A moment later, he almost wishes he hadn't. After all, it's not like he's been trying to forget about Ryan and Ryan's hands and the choked, helpless noises he made while humping Brendon's leg—Right, yeah. It's not like Brendon's been trying to forget about that for the better part of today's shift. And today's classes. Not to mention last night.

How the fuck has _this_ become his life?

"Hey," Spencer says, obviously smiling at Haley while simultaneously pretending not to do just that. If he were anyone else, it might be cute. As it is, Brendon bites back a groan.

"I'm going to take my break," he tells Haley, "need some fresh air," and he doesn't know why his voice rises to carry to where Ryan is standing still and unreadable with Spencer. "If you need me, I'll be out in the back alley."

She gives him a slightly surprised nod. "Yeah, okay, sure."

Brendon turns on his heel and tells himself he doesn't want Ryan to follow. It's not like they have a… thing or whatever. They don't. They just sort of fell a few times, and the other's mouth happened to be there to catch them. Brendon just needs some fresh air, that's all.

He lets the backdoor swing shut and leans against the rough concrete of the wall that separates the opposite house from the small alley. It's just a connection between one road and the next, hardly ever frequented and bereft of any charm, overflowing trashcans beside the backdoor of the smoothie shop. Brendon squares his shoulders, shifts his weight and tips his head back, glaring up at the clear sky. It's times like this that he wishes he smoked.

Not that he could afford it.

He's just about done with his monologue on how he really doesn't want Ryan to come out here, twelve minutes left of his break, when the back door creaks open and Ryan peers out uncertainly. Brendon straightens and gives him an unimpressed look. "Couldn't wait till Tuesday, or what?"

Ryan doesn't answer right away. He closes the door behind him and steps out into the alley, and it's pretty random for Brendon's mind to notice how Ryan's t-shirt is so tight and scene that it rides up to show a slice of white skin above the waistband of his black jeans. Brendon has always liked contrasts.

Ryan's flat voice shakes Brendon out of his musings. "What, you're assuming that every detention's going to end now with spunk in your pants?"

"Pot, meet kettle." Brendon makes his lips curl. "If I remember correctly, you were the one who got so loud I had to shut you up with my mouth. Seems like it's been a while. Girls not putting out for you, Ross?"

"Well, you see," Ryan says smoothly, stepping closer. Brendon doesn't budge. "I just thought a homophobic Mormon boy would pose more of a challenge."

"Fuck you, asshole," Brendon hisses out, and then his fingers curl in Ryan's t-shirt and he pulls him in with enough momentum to make Ryan stumble, catching himself with his palms flat against the wall, one on each side of Brendon's head. Brendon hopes it fucking _hurt_. He surges forward and Ryan leans in and their mouths meet harshly, teeth clicking. Ryan forces Brendon's head back against the wall, pressing his whole body back against it and that shouldn't work because Ryan is nothing but skin and bones and, this close, cheekbones and lashes and eyes of a strange honey-colored brown.

Brendon shuts his eyes and brings one thigh up between Ryan's legs. Ryan makes a deliciously raw noise in the back of his throat, and Brendon will totally throw that at him later, _nice__to__know__you're__gagging__for__it,__Ross,_but right now, it goes straight to his cock and when Ryan grinds against him, a slow roll of their hips, Brendon has to bite down on a moan himself. Fuck, he's not going to give Ryan the satisfaction of letting him see just how much he's getting to Brendon.

Ryan sucks Brendon's bottom lip into his mouth and Brendon adjusts to the pressure. The rough concrete wall is digging into his back, chafing his skin, and the t-shirt is old and Brendon isn't certain how much more of this it can take, and fuck, but he really couldn't care less.

"Your apron is stupid," Ryan utters randomly.

"Your _face_ is stupid," Brendon shoots back, shoving his hips forward and his leg up, and Ryan slumps forward a little, panting wetly against Brendon's cheek.

"Your _mom's_ face is stupid," Ryan says weakly, and it could be funny, almost, except for how it makes Brendon's stomach clench helplessly. Then one of Ryan's hands slides into Brendon's pants and oh, Jesus, they're in a public place, people could be walking by any moment, and still Brendon tips his head back, shoulders dragging over the wall, and yeah, that was his t-shirt tearing, all right.

"My break," he gets out somehow. Ryan's fingers curl around his cock. Brendon is achingly hard by now, and in all honesty, he's probably been hard since Ryan poked his head out of the door, or maybe even since Ryan walked into the shop, or possibly even since he woke up this morning. Therefore, it's no surprise Brendon almost curses when Ryan runs one finger around the head.

"Your break?" Ryan supplies, sounding smug.

"I have to be back in, like, five minutes, or Haley will come looking," Brendon manages. He's pretty proud it's coherent and not too breathless, despite how Ryan's now rubbing his thumb over the slit of Brendon's cock, and oh God, Brendon will never be able to look at Ryan's hands again without feeling his cock twitch. In retaliation, he rubs his leg up against Ryan's groin and is rewarded with another choked noise.

"I told Spencer," another stifled gasp, "I had to go use the bathroom. He might be wondering already."

"Probably is," Brendon says.

"Yeah." Ryan nods, lips dragging over Brendon's cheek, and squeezes Brendon's cock once before he takes his hand out of Brendon's jeans and steps back. Brendon opens his eyes, and okay, he's not far enough gone to protest, but it takes him a moment to loosen his grip on Ryan's t-shirt. The skin on his left shoulder blade stings.

"I should get back inside," Ryan says evenly. His pupils are slightly widened, though, and there are two bright spots of color high on his cheeks.

"You should," Brendon says. He lets go.

Ryan stands silent for a few seconds, then he inhales audibly and nods, turning around to the backdoor. He tugs at the handle, but of course it doesn't open. Ryan throws a questioning glance at Brendon over his shoulder, and Brendon pushes away from the wall. "It's locked," he says. "What did you _think_?"

He could refuse to unlock the door and force Ryan to go back in through the front door, tinkling bells entailing awkward explanations to Spencer. Yeah, Brendon could. Instead, he unlocks the door for Ryan, their shoulders brushing as Ryan squeezes past him to go back inside without another word or glance. Brendon waits another minute before following, stopping to get a jacket out of his bag and put that on under his apron, covering the ripped shirt. He tells himself he only let Ryan back in to spare himself the humiliation of Ryan caving to his best friend's questions and tell Spencer in great detail just what he's been up to.

Spencer seems like the type to defend his friends' honor. Not that Brendon's sure that it's Ryan's honor that's at stake here.

When he gets back to the front, Ryan and Spencer are already gone, and Haley is smiling slightly to herself. She looks up at Brendon's return, but if she realized that those were the same guys that asked after Brendon a couple weeks back or so, she doesn't mention it. He's almost grateful for that. 

The t-shirt really is ripped. It's only an inch-long tear, but it's right at his shoulder blade and pretty obvious in the mirror, when he twists his head around to get a better look at it.

He pulls the shirt over his head and tosses it aside. On his shoulder blade, matching the tear in the t-shirt, is an angry red cut where the concrete chafed his skin. He runs a finger over it and it stings, but the sensation also makes him shiver with an echo of Ryan's fingers wrapped around his cock. Brendon sighs and drops his head. Fuck, he really has no idea what's happening here.

His stomach growls to remind him that he hasn't eaten since the morning. Brendon glances down at his half-hard cock, then bites down on his lip and resolutely leaves the bathroom, turning the light off. There's still one of Kara's containers left. He heats it up and even remembers to water the plant, flicking one of the leaves while the heavenly scent of soup slowly begins to fill the kitchen. The weight behind Brendon's forehead subsides a little. Four days without school, and the day after the next without having to see even a single piece of fruit. He hasn't played his guitar in what feels like years, although it's probably been only a week.

Later, he sits cross-legged on his bed, watching the pilot of Dark Angel with Jessica Alba while spooning his soup. Even though he's come to realize that he's more into smooth chests than breasts, he loves watching her whirl over the screen, black leather and cat-like grace, dark hair and serious eyes.

Brendon thinks he might need a vacation. 

His eight hour shift goes by pretty quickly, surprisingly, uneventful and easy, and when he gets back to the apartment he's still alert enough to play his guitar for a while, put on _August__And__Everything_ and tries to play along with as many of the songs as he can. He goes to bed early out of boredom, and as a result he wakes up earlier than expected.

It's weird, the prospect of being alone in the apartment for a whole day. Brendon's used to having to go to work or school (or detention; his back stings, where it scraped against the wall) and the twenty-four hours with nothing to do stretches out aimlessly in front of him. At first he kind of thinks he'll be bored, but then he spends nearly five hours catching up with every bit of schoolwork he's fallen behind on. By the time he's done his stomach is growling and his neck and back are stiff from bending over his laptop (a handy Christmas present from the year before last, and if he sits in a certain corner he can pinch the neighbor's wireless).

His mind is fogged and sluggish, so he pulls on his shoes and his jacket and heads outside for a walk to clear his head. He's considering catching a bus into the inner city to do some window-shopping and stop by his favourite record store, but he's just made it to the bus stop when he remembers that most of the shops will be shut. He hesitates, then heads for home.

Actually, he thinks, the prospect of most of a day left at home with nothing to do is pretty awesome. He can lie in bed all day and watch movies, catch up on sleep. He's forgotten what it's like to not be exhausted and it might be nice, he muses, to wake up for school and not want to die. With this in mind, he crawls into bed in his t-shirt and underwear upon arriving home and sleeps for nearly four hours.

He's woken by his phone buzzing insistently on the floor, vibrating round in persistent circles. He scrambles for it, clumsy with sleep, and answers just in time, mumbling, "H'lo?"

"Hey," Kara says. She's whispering – Brendon thinks a little meanly that it's early enough in the day that she'll have to hide away if she wants to call him without the rest of the family noticing. Especially considering they're all going to be there; Brendon's stomach does a slow, nauseous roll, thinking of them all there. He curls down further under his heap of blankets. "What are you up to?" Kara asks.

"Not much," Brendon says, and yawns. "M'not working, so I did some homework."

"Good for you," Kara says, and she does sound really pleased. "You're doing really well, Brendon. Listen, I'm still waiting to talk to Mom and Dad about college—"

"Yeah," Brendon says. "It's okay, I'm saving a bit, too, and there's scholarships I can try for."

"You'll get them," Kara says, and Brendon will never say it but he loves that about her; her automatic, immediate belief that he can do whatever he wants. He tunes back in to a slight ramble about how his other sister almost ruined the turkey, and then, "What are you eating for dinner?"

"Um," he says, doing a mental inventory of his cupboards. "Cereal, I guess. I think I'm all out of everything else, unless there's some Ramen somewhere. Thanks again for the soup, though, it was great."

"Don't mention it," Kara says, oddly formal. She sounds suspiciously close to tears and Brendon makes a face at the wall, feeling guilty and mean; he should know when to lie, damn it. Kara's the best and kindest person in the world but he thinks he should learn to keep shit to himself.

"Anyway," he says brightly, "I'm going out with some friends tomorrow, so I think we're going to do a big lunch thing then. Probably won't be very healthy, but whatever."

"Oh," Kara says. "Oh, that sounds great. I'm glad you're not working all through the holiday. Who are your friends, Brendon? That guy Brent?"

Brendon's disinterested lab partner? Sure, why not. "Yup," he says. "And a couple of other guys, too. It'll be fun."

"Sure it will," Kara says. "Sure, so, have a good time."

"You, too," Brendon says. "Happy Thanksgiving, I love you."

"Love you, too. Happy Thanksgiving," Kara says and hangs up. Brendon puts the phone back down by the mattress, pulls the covers over his head, and goes back to sleep for the day. 

Ryan hates holidays. They inevitably seem to reduce him to a petulant three year old stomping around his room, pissed off at being on his own because his friends are spending time with their families. He and his dad are reduced to ghostlike figures that sit in different rooms and shout about mealtimes through the hallways, glowering at the walls. Fuck, Ryan hates holidays.

Ryan doesn't even get the point of them. Spencer and Jon are busy all weekend, not just on Thanksgiving itself, and it's a silly thing, to think you have to leave certain days exclusively for blood relatives. By Saturday he's worked himself into a really annoyed state, and even bumming around on the internet doesn't work him out of it, especially when Spencer IMs him with _how__you__holding__up?_Ryan's not taking any goddamn sympathy, not even from Spencer, so he logs off without replying, pulls on his hoodie and grabs his keys and wallet before announcing to the silent house that he's going out.

He catches the first bus he sees. He got a car (if you could call it that) a few months ago but parking is always ridiculous and he's honestly not sure how long it's going to hold up. He catches the bus and plugs in his iPod and scowls at other people because he's damned if he's not going to spread his bad mood.

When he gets off the bus in the city, he's honestly not wandering anywhere in particular. It's nearly six and most of the shops are closing, but he stops and picks up the new issue of the Rolling Stone and an ice cream which freezes his tongue but tastes good, and mostly it's just nice to be out of the oppressive (and sometimes smelly) atmosphere of his bedroom.

The Smoothie Hut is right at the top of the street he normally walks up, anyway, so it's not like he's heading directly for there. When he gets there, though, he can't help but glance in the window and then he stops still and stares, because Brendon's leaning against the counter, flicking through a magazine, and, what? Shouldn't he be with his precious little family?

He doesn't understand, but before he's even made up his mind about the best course of action he's stepping through the door, pushing it open with that annoying little jangle. Brendon says, without looking up and sounding really bored, "We're closing in five minutes."

Ryan doesn't say anything, and Brendon looks up and then freezes. They stare at each other for a moment and then Brendon narrows his eyes, says, "What do you want?"

"Why the fuck are you working?" Ryan blurts out without meaning to, and Brendon stiffens, back perfectly straight.

"It's a job, Ryan," he drawls. "The concept is pretty simple."

Ryan swallows and looks away. The silence stretches on, awkward, and then finally Brendon repeats, "What d'you want, then?"

Ryan's quiet for a moment, tries to answer it himself, and then he raises his head and says, "You're closing in five minutes?"

Brendon presses his lips into a tight, white line. Then he shakes his head slightly, corner of his mouth twisting into an incredulous, crooked smile. "You've got some nerve," he says, and Ryan hunches his shoulders defensively. Brendon looks at him tiredly, like it's taxing just to look at Ryan. He says, "Okay, whatever. I'll be out in two minutes."

He turns around and disappears through the doors behind the counter, and Ryan goes back outside, leans against the wall and waits. He feels jittery, skin crawling, and he feels overly conscious of the material of his hoodie against the bare skin of his arms, the denim of his jeans.

Brendon appears minus the stupid apron but still wearing an equally stupid lilac t-shirt. He folds his arms in front of his chest and says, "So. Hi." Ryan blinks and then rolls his eyes, smirking at Brendon and Brendon bristles.

"I'm kind of cold," Brendon says sharply. "And I wanna go home, so can we get this over with?"

"Um," Ryan says, because he hasn't actually thought this far ahead. "You want to go around the back again?"

Brendon blinks at him in disbelief. "Are you serious?" he says. "Fucking – you gonna pay me, too?"

Ryan begins, hotly, "I wasn't—" and Brendon cuts him off with a harsh laugh, pulling on a hoodie over his t-shirt.

"Yeah, whatever," he says. "We'll just – we can't go to your place?"

"Uh, no?" Ryan says, giving Brendon an incredulous look. "My dad's home."

"Fine," Brendon says. He looks away, down the street, tapping his fingers on his arm restlessly. He looks a little bit frantic, almost like he was before he kissed Ryan but different, too, and he runs his hand through his hair once, twice, before he turns back to Ryan and says, again, "Fine." And then, "We'll go back to my place."

Ryan laughs. "What," he says, "And avoid the whole Mormon household?"

Brendon looks at him, eyes dark, face carefully blank. "I don't live with my parents," he says. 

The bus ride to Brendon's place is silent. Brendon looks out the window, and he looks _furious_, so Ryan doesn't say anything, even though he has a million questions: why don't you live with them? Is it like that kid in our English class whose parents pay for him to have an apartment in the city? Do you like it? Is it fun? Were you working because you were lonely? Why are you lonely, why are you on your own, why don't you have any friends—

Brendon looks at him and says dismissively, "You look really dumb with your mouth hanging open."

Quick, hot anger rushes through Ryan; _why__are__you__such__an__asshole_, he thinks, and he says nothing. Brendon leans forward, anyway, all up in Ryan's personal space to press the buzzer to stop the bus, and Ryan stays still, doesn't move.

It's raining when they get out, and Brendon looks up at the sky and swears under his breath. Ryan pulls his hood up over his head and Brendon follows suit, walking a few paces in front of him. The area is kind of dodgy, dilapidated buildings and lots of graffiti, and Ryan tries not to look around with obvious wide eyes but thinks he fails, especially when Brendon looks over his shoulder at him and snorts, mouth twisting.

"Need me to hold your hand?" he coos sweetly. "I won't let the big bad neighborhood hurt you, don't worry—"

"Shut up," Ryan mutters. "You're the one who _lives_ here, what the fuck."

Brendon hunches his shoulders up and doesn't respond, just pushes open the door of one of the apartment buildings (no key to get in the front door, Ryan notices, trailing behind him) and up the stairs to the fourth floor. He pauses outside a door for a moment, glancing back at Ryan, and Ryan shoves his hands in his pockets, looks back at him.

Brendon laughs mirthlessly. "I don't know why I'm doing this," he says, and unlocks the door, pushing the way inside.

Brendon's apartment is tiny and smelly in a different way to Ryan's room – less teenage boy, more dampness and stale air. Ryan counts two rooms: a tiny little kitchenette with a shaky table that looks like Brendon picked it up outside of someone's house before the garbage men got there and an older looking fridge that opens into a slightly larger space, a living room with a laptop open in front of a large mattress with rumpled blankets on it; and a little door leading into what Ryan presumes is the bathroom. He looks around him and then back at Brendon, who is standing in the middle of his kitchen, arms folded, eyes dark and angry, chin jutting out defiantly.

For lack of anything else to say, Ryan asks, "How long have you lived here?"

"Since the beginning of the year," Brendon says slowly, like he's waiting for the catch. The words resound in Ryan's head and he thinks, _that__long?_and then thinks about how this year, they'd stopped fighting whenever they happened to run into each other, or when one of them had pissed the other off. He looks at Brendon and thinks, _this__year__you__came__looking__for__me._

"Okay," he says.

Brendon says, "So," and Ryan crosses the floor to him. He feels awkward for a moment but Brendon moves at the same time, heading straight for him, grabbing at him and tugging him in close. He bites at Ryan's lip, fingers rough and bruising on Ryan's sides, and Ryan thinks it's strange, how this is a holiday, this is meant to be a cheerful time, and yet Brendon's shitty, lonely little apartment is still the place he'd rather be.

They're standing, pulling at each other, halfway between the front door and Brendon's mattress. It's distantly funny how Ryan is convinced that by now, he can almost read Brendon's mood by the way he's kissing. Brendon is biting down on Ryan's lower lip, rough and harsh, no sense of finesse whatsoever as his teeth sink in almost enough to draw blood, and Ryan shouldn't know this because he doesn't know _Brendon_, but it's a pretty good indicator of Brendon's frustration. Or maybe Ryan's reading too much into this. It's not like he cares.

He twists his fingers in Brendon's hair, pulling until Brendon makes choked noises of pain and pulls back to glare at him. "_You're_ the one biting me, assface," Ryan says, unfazed. He bends his head to suck at the skin below Brendon's jaw, and this time, the sounds Brendon makes aren't of pain. Ryan smiles and stores them away for later, next time Brendon tells him he's too loud.

It takes him a moment to realize that right here, now, it doesn't matter how loud they are. The muffled noise of a television from the neighboring apartment makes it through the thin wall, and Ryan pushes Brendon down onto the mattress while grey light fills all the corners of the room.

The bed gives underneath them, too soft and worn-down to bear the weight of two bodies very well, laptop sliding onto the floor. Brendon, apparently used to it, just rolls with the dip and somehow manages to sprawl on top of Ryan, grinning down at him with a kind of smug satisfaction that's almost enough for Ryan to want to punch him. Instead, he grabs Brendon's head with both hands and forces him down, kisses the grin right off Brendon's face until they're both panting and rocking against each other.

Brendon turns his head away for a greedy breath. Ryan watches the sharp line of Brendon's shoulder, his throat, and wonders how often Brendon gets a decent meal. Since Ryan's father is rarely in any shape to consider any kind of nutrition that doesn't come in bottles, Ryan's gotten pretty good at just helping himself to his father's wallet to do grocery shopping. His pride forbids him to take any more than he strictly needs, and while he doesn't have Spencer's natural ability to make something tasty out of whatever ingredients he gets his hands on, it's usually edible. So, Ryan eats. He's just naturally skinny.

With Brendon, he's honestly not so sure.

He skims his palm down Brendon's back, the ripples of Brendon's spine standing out sharply through the thin cotton. For a moment, Brendon seems to arch into the touch, then he shakes his head and narrows his eyes, face hovering inches above Ryan's. "What, Ross?" he asks, voice tight.

"Nothing," Ryan says. He takes his hand away like he's been burned, and then they're kissing again, the wet sound of it mingling with the muted noise of the television.

It's Brendon who reaches between them this time, and Ryan holds his breath when Brendon's fingers sneak past the waistband of his jeans, into his underwear, Brendon's arm twisted awkwardly to make it work. Ryan makes an embarrassingly needy sound when Brendon's curls around his cock. He closes his eyes so he won't have to see Brendon watching him intently, clearly gauging Ryan's reactions, possibly storing them away to use against him later. Ryan's not going to give him the satisfaction.

Still, he finds it hard to keep his hips from twitching into Brendon's grip when Brendon rakes a nail along the length of Ryan's erection. It's quite obvious from the hesitant curl of his hand that he hasn't ever done this to anyone else, and that shouldn't be a turn-on, but it kind of is. At least it means Brendon can't make fun of Ryan for his inexperience.

"Oh, fuck this," Brendon mutters suddenly. Ryan slits his eyes open to find Brendon's brow furrowed.

"I think you're moving a little ahead of yourself, there," Ryan says, and he's pleased that his voice is perfectly flat.

Brendon gives him a dark look and lifts himself up onto his knees, balancing on one hand to undo the zipper of Ryan's jeans, and wait, _what_? "The angle is killing my arm," Brendon says, tugging at the jeans and the boxers underneath. Ryan lifts his hips up without pausing to think. Brendon pushes the cloth down Ryan's thighs, and Ryan nearly sighs when Brendon's hand curls around him again, almost misses Brendon's, "And getting you off just isn't worth risking a cramp."

"Yeah, fuck you, too," Ryan mutters. In response, Brendon's grip tightens, almost too much, and fuck, fuck, but it feels _good_ when he slowly loosens it again.

Ryan undoes Brendon's pants mostly for something to do with his own hands, other than fist them in Brendon's hair, maybe push Brendon's head down, which would be just far too close to begging. "What are you—" Brendon begins.

"It's called a handjob," Ryan interrupts him, and when he gets Brendon's pants and underwear down and squeezes Brendon's fully hard cock, hot and the head already slick with precome, Brendon gasps out a curse and sinks down. Their hands brush before Brendon nudges Ryan out of the way and curls his hand around both their cocks, only his fingers don't cover enough, not _nearly_ enough, and Ryan turns his head into the pillow that smells like Brendon, and shit, it's not like Ryan even _wants_ to know what Brendon smells like, but that sickly sweet scent of fruit and boy fills his head anyway, mixing with the dizzying rush of spiraling down, down.

Ryan covers what Brendon can't with his own hand, their fingers overlapping as Brendon rolls his hips, the combined friction of his thrusts and their moving hands almost too much stimulation. Ryan bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep quiet, eyes squeezed shut so tightly he sees sparks, and counts out Brendon's jerky motions in his head so as to distract himself just a little, _five__six__seven_, cling to the edge just a moment longer, _ten__eleven_, so he won't embarrass himself, _thirteen_, and he nearly chokes in relief when Brendon comes warm and sticky over both their hands.

He's pretty sure he groans out something intelligible when he lets go, but at least, he thinks, blackness exploding behind his lids, at least he didn't come first. They're even.

They lie panting, catching their breaths, for what might be a few minutes, but is probably no more than one. Brendon is the one who moves first, rolling off Ryan and lifting his hand up to his face, inspecting it. "That's kind of disgusting," he announces.

Ryan snorts. "It's yours as much as mine."

Instead of replying, Brendon wipes his hand on Ryan's t-shirt, and since Ryan is stunned into stillness for just a second, he doesn't scramble away fast enough. "What the_fuck_," he grits out, catching Brendon's wrist and squeezing until he can feel bones shifting beneath his fingers.

Brendon's eyes narrow, his hand turning white in Ryan's tight hold. "Since you thought it was perfectly alright to destroy my t-shirt last time we met under," he pauses for a dark chuckle, "much the same circumstances, I thought it only fair to return the favor."

"I destroyed your t-shirt?" Ryan asks, despite himself. He loosens his grip just slightly, and God, what? It's not like he cares about how Brendon probably can't afford too many new clothes, if the state of his apartment is any indication.

"Concrete and cotton," Brendon says evenly. "You make the calculation, if that isn't too much of a challenge for you."

"Oh, fuck you," Ryan says. He lets go and pushes himself into a sitting position, tugging his pants and underwear back up his thighs, zipping the pants up with one hand.

"Wow, that was witty," Brendon says, still lying on his back with his softening dick on display, like he couldn't care less. Ryan maybe hates him for his nonchalance. Well, for his nonchalance, amongst other things.

"Company's rubbing off, I guess," Ryan says. "Which is my cue to leave. Have a nice evening, or whatever."

Brendon smiles, utterly cold and fake. "Whatever, Ross. You too."

Ryan stands near the door for a moment, looking down at Brendon and his carefully relaxed posture, and he's torn between not wanting to return to his father's house and not wanting to be here any longer, in this shitty little apartment with a guy he can't stand, even though the sex isn't half-bad.

Brendon raises a brow. "Waiting for a goodbye kiss?"

Ryan shakes his head and finally turns away. "No," he says. "Thanks for the offer, but no, thanks." He doesn't wait for a reply, just opens the door and steps out into the dark hallway. The light switch glows a few steps ahead, and Ryan takes a deep breath and starts walking. 

The moment the door falls shut, Brendon releases a breath and closes his eyes, rubbing his clean hand over his face. Just, shit. What the fuck was he thinking, taking Ryan back to his apartment, allowing him that glimpse into his life. Brendon doesn't want his pity; he's doing just fine without people walking on eggshells around him, thanks.

At least Ryan didn't dwell on it.

Brendon listens to the fading footsteps down the hallway outside, the creak of the third step on the staircase that barely makes it over the neighbor's daily dose of soap operas. Only then does he get up, glancing down at his groin with a mixture of emotions he can't quite make sense of.

Well. So now he knows what it feels like to have another guy's cock in his hand, and to feel that guy's cock rubbing against his own. It's… pretty damn amazing, in all honesty.

Brendon exhales around a sigh and shimmies out of his pants and underwear, slightly soiled even though they weren't quite in the direct line of events, so to speak. Another two items to add to his growing laundry pile, then.

He turns the music on as he walks over to the kitchenette, tossing his t-shirt onto the floor when he notices there's a stain on it as well. The refrigerator breathes cold air over his naked body and he shivers a little. There's no food left except for a chocolate bar some customer forgot at the Smoothie Hut yesterday. It's pretty pathetic, as far as dinner goes, but Brendon just can't work up the energy to get dressed and spend money he doesn't have too much of anyway at the grocery store around the corner.

Instead, he slides under the covers fully naked and retrieves the laptop that tumbled onto the floor earlier. Since Brendon's mattress isn't high above floor level, nothing seems to be broken and it boots without complaint.

There's a wet spot on the mattress. Brendon looks at it for a long moment before he determinedly covers it with the blanket. It takes him a long time to go to sleep and even then, and for the rest of the weekend, he sleeps restlessly and wakes up hard and aching, which is only marginally better than lonely. In any case, alone in his apartment, both things amount to much of the same. 

Ryan's bad mood, if possible, grows over what's left of the weekend. He gets a little bit lost heading home from Brendon's place, ends up panicking and getting off two stops too early, and then walking back into the city to catch the bus home from there. By the time he gets home, he's cold and damp from the rain, and his mood doesn't improve over time.

Lost or not on the way back home, he remembers the way to Brendon's apartment, remembers the bus to catch and the street to get off at, and he spends most of the weekend trying to force himself to stay home. It would be ridiculously pathetic, he knows, to turn up uninvited, and it'll look too much like he wants to see Brendon – which he doesn't – rather than just getting off.

He ends up jerking himself off a ridiculous amount over the weekend, and there's a slow, lingering heat in him that flares up at the thought of Tuesday. It's ridiculous to look forward to detention and Ryan's _not_, but he can't deny he prefers this version of hating Brendon to the one that sent him home with black eyes and a split lip.

Spencer calls on Monday and asks if he wants to go the movies with him and Jon, celebrate the fact that they have the day off school for a teachers' in-service, but Ryan ends up turning him down. He can't quite decide why; he feels unsettled, restless in a way that sitting in a dark theater and chucking popcorn at Jon's head isn't going to satisfy. He thinks about going to the Smoothie Hut again, wonders how often Brendon works there, how much he earns (he looked so _skinny_). He doesn't go, of course. He's not that dumb, he doesn't want Brendon to get any more ammunition against him than he's already got.

Jon picks him up for school on Tuesday, clearly having talked his mother into letting him borrow the car again. Spencer's hunched grumpily over a thermos that Ryan guesses has coffee in it in the passenger seat so Ryan slips into the back.

"What's up?" he says, automatically, and Jon grins at him.

"Spencer's having his customary post-holiday weekend hissy fit," he informs Ryan. Spencer glares.

"It goes so _fast_," he says. "Why the fuck does it always go so _fast_? I don't _want_to go to school."

"Yeah," Ryan agrees, mindlessly. Jon smirks at him in the rear-view mirror.

"Look on the bright side, Spence," he says. "At least _we_don't have detention."

Spencer laughs, cheered, and Ryan rolls his eyes and repeats, "Yeah." In his lap, he twists his fingers together, white-knuckled at awkward angles. 

Brendon's not in Biology. Ryan doesn't know what it means that he notices right away, looks at the classroom and thinks _wait,__what?_but he does. Brent looks bored and annoyed, the way you do when you're going to have to end up doing an experiment by yourself, and Ryan almost, almost asks him if he knows where Brendon is. Ryan's itchy and half-hard from thinking about Saturday, and he'll be really fucking pissed if Brendon's decided not to show up.

Jon notices, too. He rolls his eyes and says, "Hey, looks like we might actually manage to have a class _free_of jerkishness."

"Um," Ryan says, and laughs. Brent looks at them, cheek resting in his hand, tapping his fingers on the table and clearly listening, but doesn't say anything in Brendon's defence. Ryan thinks of Brendon's fierce, defiant expression standing by the kitchen table of his apartment and swallows hard, looks away. He thinks, _maybe__the__beating__each__other__up__thing__was__better,__after__all_.

"Ryan?" Jon says, frowning.

"Uh, sorry," Ryan says. "Drifted off, sorry, what were you saying?"

"If you've got the worksheet from last class," Jon repeats. "You took it home, remember?" He sounds amused but his eyes linger on Ryan's face, unreadable, and Ryan takes the opportunity to search through his bag and avoid Jon's gaze. He wonders if Jon's been talking to Spencer, if they've been discussing him behind his back. A fierce, hot anger rises inside him but he clamps it down; he has an awful feeling he's been more tempted generally to get pissed at people for no reason. He can save useless anger for someone he's sure will always hit back.

He's all ready to be pissed off at Brendon upon going to detention and finding him absent from that too, but Brendon is there, already sitting in his corner by the time Ryan arrives. Ryan says hi to Wentz and then closes the door behind him, leaning against the wall. Brendon looks up at him, kind of wary, and Ryan feels his mouth twist into something ugly automatically.

"Where the fuck were you today?" he asks abruptly, and then wants to kick himself. _Seriously_.

Brendon raises his eyebrows. "Miss me, darling?" he asks, but his words lack the customary venom. He sounds tired; there are dark shadows under his eyes. Ryan remembers, vaguely, the antibiotics sitting in the middle of Brendon's kitchen table, the other girl at the Smoothie Hut saying he was at the doctor's.

"I think it's fucking unfair that you get away with skipping as much as you do," Ryan says.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Brendon groans, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall. "Coming from you, that's the most hypocritical thing I've ever heard. And I _don't_. That often, anyway."

"Whatever," Ryan says. He looks at Brendon uneasily for a moment, hands flexing at his sides. Brendon catches sight of them and scowls.

"Fuck you," he says. "I think I've been your right hand for long enough."

"Yeah, okay, man," Ryan says. "I bet you managing to hold out for about three seconds is a sure sign of you having a bad time."

"Don't flatter yourself," Brendon says, sneering. "You think it's _your_particular presence that does that?"

"I figured just your general immaturity," Ryan says smoothly, and sinks to the floor, reaching for a pile of files. Brendon's eyes are dark watching him, whether he wants to admit it or not, and Ryan can wait. It'll be more gratifying when Brendon comes to him, pulls him close. Brendon doesn't even respond, so Ryan guesses it won't be long.

They work in silence for a while. Ryan refuses to look at Brendon, waits with his skin prickling and his dick half-hard, trying not to rub his hand against it as is the temptation, or worse, crawl over to Brendon and into his lap. After nearly fifteen minutes, though, Ryan's had enough of ignoring him, and he looks up and then stops, gaping.

Brendon's fast asleep, head fallen back against the wall, body slumped carefully into the corner. His hands twitch a little on the denim of his jeans as he mumbles something and Ryan starts across the room to wake him up, laugh at him, upset the files that Brendon's started sorting. Instead, he ends up sitting a bare foot away and staring at Brendon's smooth face, his eyelashes dark against his skin.

Ryan doesn't want to look _after_Brendon, the guy's a shit and Ryan fucking hates him, but he can't quite bring himself to wake Brendon up. Just because Brendon looks kind of peaceful, for the first time in forever, like he's not fighting with everybody in the world and himself on top of that.

In the end, he reaches out and grabs the pile that Brendon was sorting, and he sorts through them extra fast, keeping one eye on his phone for the time and another on the door that Wentz could walk through at any moment. He's not sure why he's doing this, but he gets on a roll with the files and ends up managing more than enough for the two of them on a slow day, and so, whatever, it gets done and Ryan doesn't care if Brendon sleeps if it stops him from bitching at Ryan for a little while.

Five minutes before it's time for them to leave, Ryan orders the files he's been working on neatly and crawls back over to Brendon's corner. He hesitates for a moment, says, "Urie. Urie, hey, hey, _Brendon_," and then, when he doesn't wake up, reaches out tentatively and touches Brendon's shoulder. He curls his hand around Brendon, feels the bone underneath cloth and skin and shakes him kind of gently, to avoid getting smacked in the face by someone waking up.

"Hey," he says. "Hey, it's time to go."

Brendon stirs slowly, eyelashes fluttering against his skin. He mumbles something, low and groggy under his breath, and Ryan leaves his hand where it is, the cotton of Brendon's shirt warm against his skin. Brendon's eyes are clouded for a moment, staring up at Ryan in a dreamy kind of way until he suddenly snaps awake. 

It's been months since Brendon's been woken by anything other than the shrill alarm of his battered cell phone, and he's generally not someone who needs a lot of time to regain a sense of his surroundings. When Ryan shakes him awake, it takes Brendon several slow blinks to even identify the guy bent over him because his first sluggish thought is, _vanilla_, and his second is, _wow,__hot_, and only the third is _Ryan_ when it clearly should have been the first.

The simple fact is enough to make him suddenly, irrationally angry. Screw Ryan Ross and his stupid fucking _pity_ just because he thinks he knows a thing or two about Brendon's life now. He doesn't.

Brendon shoves him away with both hands flat on Ryan's chest, enough momentum for Ryan to go stumbling into a cabinet, the dull metallic clank echoing in the stuffy room. "What the—" Ryan hisses out, straightening. Brendon glances down to find Ryan's hands curled into fists and he quickly rolls to his feet and arranges his expression into a sneer while tiredness still pulls at the corners of his eyes.

"Waiting for something?" Brendon asks. He barely recognizes the ugly tone of his voice, smug and deceptively confident. Ryan will come to him, he knows that Ryan will. Ryan always has.

Ryan pushes away from the cabinet. "For you to fucking grow some—"

The door opens right into the sentence. Wentz' eyes quickly sweep the room, from Ryan to Brendon, the ever-present grin never wavering. Brendon loosens his stance and raises his chin. "Your time's up," Wentz says, almost pleasantly. "Seems like you made some good progress today."

Brendon glances at the piles of records to his feet, and it's true. There are neatly sorted stacks where none used to be. When he raises his eyes, Ryan isn't looking at him. "Can we go now?" Ryan asks, tone petulant.

"Sure, Ryan." Wentz' smile turns slightly less manic and more genuine when he waves Ryan off. Ryan picks up his back and turns towards the door without a sideways glance, shoulders hunched up, and he pauses only when Wentz adds, "And oh, Ryan? Brendon? I'd hate to find the both of you fighting in the parking lot on the way to my car."

"Sure thing," Ryan says flatly, and then he's gone.

Wentz watches him go for a moment before he turns his head, and Brendon realizes he has yet to move. He makes himself take the two steps towards his back. "Brendon?" Wentz says from behind him.

Brendon stills and consciously fights not to tense. "Yes?"

"William—Mr. Beckett," Wentz corrects himself, "told me he has yet to receive the essay you promised to hand in today."

It's not what Brendon expected, so he picks up his bag and nods, not quite looking at Wentz. "Yeah, I. I'm sorry, I had to work yesterday, and didn't get a chance. I swear, he'll have it tomorrow." Which means at least four hours of work before Brendon can finally curl up in his bed and fight the latest burst of his flu with even more pills.

"Alright," Wentz says, and for a moment, he seems on the verge of adding something. Brendon waits for only two seconds before he slips out of the room.

When he gets outside, the sun is glaring down from a clear sky, and Ryan is long since gone already. 

They don't share any classes on Wednesday, but when Brendon goes past the teacher's room to hand in his shitty excuse for an essay after his first class, he notices Ryan and Jon tucked away into a corner of the corridor, right beside the lockers. They're too involved in whatever it is they're discussing, heads bent close, so when Brendon stands just two feet away to retrieve his chemistry textbook, they don't even notice him there. He shifts a little closer, close enough to catch Ryan's reverent, "They make me _sick_, and I was running late so I couldn't get rid of them and I wasn't about to miss Trig, you _know_ how Bryar is about that."

"Alright, alright." When Brendon glances over, Jon's placed a gentle hand on Ryan's shoulder. Brendon blinks and tries to quench the memory of Ryan's hand, warm even through the t-shirt, and fuck. For that short moment when Brendon was still half-asleep, it had felt good. Brendon bites the inside of his cheek while Jon adds, "I'll cover for you, okay? You'll be back for History?"

"It's not that far," Ryan says. There's a momentary pause before he adds, quietly, "Thanks."

"Sure thing," Jon replies easily, and Brendon maybe hates him a little bit. He quickly hides his face behind the door of his locker when Jon glances up, but when Ryan sets off down the corridor in the opposite direction from Jon, Brendon follows with the vague notion of being alone with Ryan to find out what kind of stupid rebellious thing Ryan is up to this time, or finish what they started yesterday, or to—God, whatever.

Ryan leaves the school grounds without any obvious sign of hesitance, walking down the street at a brisk pace, and Brendon almost misses it when he turns into a small side street. Brendon picks up his steps and rounds the corner to find Ryan a small distance ahead.

"Hey," Brendon calls out. "Hey, Ross!"

Ryan whirls around, eyes wide and surprised. Brendon advances slowly and waits for something, a jab, anything that he can respond to by swinging out. Nothing comes.

Brendon frowns and takes another step forward. "Cutting school?" he asks slowly. "Really, what would Way say?"

Ryan's eyes narrow. He lets the backpack slide off his shoulder, nudging it out of the way with the heel of his foot. "Nothing, unless some asshole rats me out."

"Huh." Brendon smiles.

"Did you _follow_ me here?" Ryan asks unnecessarily. Instead of a reply, Brendon widens his smile and shoves at Ryan's shoulder to make him stumble back a step, against the rough wall of a house that's clearly seen better days. Reverse positions, Brendon thinks in exhilaration, moving forward, and he doesn't see it coming when Ryan grips his upper arm, nails cutting into the skin hard enough to break it while Ryan's other hand punches Brendon in the stomach.

For a second, Brendon gasps for air before he twists away, back around to shove his palm against Ryan's throat while evading the kick Ryan tries to deliver to Brendon's kneecap. He's successful until Ryan hooks his leg around Brendon's calf and Brendon stumbles and falls, Ryan going down only a blink of an eye later, gasping, one hand pressed to his throat.

"You _fucker_," Brendon grits out, and he tries to buck Ryan off only that Ryan shoves him into the ground at the same time and their hips knock together and shit, Brendon is hard and so is Ryan and this is fucked up on so many levels, but Brendon lifts his head off the ground and closes his eyes when Ryan's mouth covers his.

Distantly, he's aware that they're in a quiet street, alone only for the moment, but when he wraps one leg around Ryan's waist and rubs up against him, there is pretty much nothing that could matter less to him.

"Fuck you," Ryan hisses, but that doesn't stop him from shifting so that their dicks slide together, the friction of the denim between them nearly painful. It's utterly graceless, frantic and hurried as they twitch against each other, and Brendon thinks he hears footsteps from around the corner, drawing closer. He draws Ryan's bottom lip into his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut, his whole perception narrowed down to the brighthot sparks that explode in his stomach and spread until he can feel them even in his toes.

Maybe, if there were people other than Ryan who touched Brendon, Brendon wouldn't be quite so easy. As it is, he tilts his hips up for a better angle and arches his back off the ground to get closer, releasing Ryan's bottom lip from between his teeth. It's only a moment later that Ryan bites down on the skin below Brendon's jaw, sucking gently, but with an insistence that is nearly certain to leave a mark. Brendon swallows down Ryan's name before it can fully formulate on the tip of his tongue and comes.

He's not quite sure how far behind Ryan is, but by the time Brendon slits his eyes open, Ryan is jerking against him, hips stuttering erratically before he releases a long breath and stills, forehead pressed to Brendon's cheek. Brendon lifts one hand off of the ground and rests it on Ryan's shoulder blade, only realizing what he's doing a moment later.

To his surprise, Ryan doesn't comment.

They lie motionless for what might be another minute, and the footsteps were apparently only Brendon's overheated brain because they're still alone, just the two of them in a quiet little side street. Eventually, Ryan rolls off, scrambling to his feet a little awkwardly and pushing one hand through his hair, looking at anything but Brendon.

Despite the heaviness of his limbs, Brendon gets up as well. His jeans chafe against his softening cock, even more uncomfortable now than this morning, when he couldn't find any clean underwear. "Well," he says, rather aimlessly.

Ryan shrugs, face blank. Something clinks inside his backpack when he bends down to pick it up, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. Brendon is about to ask what he's got in there that has him hunch his shoulders, eyes just _daring_ Brendon to make a comment.

Brendon doesn't. "I'll see you around," he says evenly, turning around, and he's proud he doesn't stumble when he walks back towards the school. His jeans stick to his skin, but when he checks for any outward sign as soon as he's rounded the corner, there are none. No one will be able to tell what happened just from looking at him. 

Ryan's throat still hurts from Brendon shoving it when he gets down to the depot and drops the empty bottles off, and he touches it gingerly, hoping it's not bruised. He feels unreasonably tired, thoughts sluggish and head heavy, and he kind of wants to collapse facedown somewhere and just _sleep_, but he still has to go to school and he can't really afford to skip many class anymore, not this close to the end of the year.

His underwear is sticking uncomfortably to his skin, but Ryan tries not to think about that. He's done thinking about Brendon, anyway.

He runs through the rest of the day on auto-pilot, even though it makes Jon and Spencer look worried at lunch. He says, "Just tired," as explanation and he is, he guesses, although there's no reason for it – he just feels exhausted and _pointless_at the moment, not sure where he stands with anything.

Spencer reaches out and rubs the back of his neck just slightly, and Ryan raises his head, smiles sleepily at him. He looks up by accident and then back down just as quickly, but by then it's too late, and he spends the rest of lunch with the uncomfortable knowledge that across the cafeteria, Brendon is glaring at him. 

Ryan's never liked school at all, but it's still slightly weird to have the last few months of it going by so fast. Before he can quite work out what's going on it's December, and he's got Friday detention again. Soon, he thinks, it'll be the Christmas break, and then it'll be exams and pretty soon he'll be graduating and out of here for good.

He's willing to admit – to himself, at least – that the prospect is maybe just a little bit frightening.

Brendon is late coming to detention, still wiping crumbs away from his mouth when he skids in the door, and Ryan looks up and rolls his eyes. He's still weirdly tired, can't even be bothered saying something calculated to piss Brendon off, so he just ignores him, sitting down and sorting idly through files.

Brendon doesn't say anything, either; when Ryan looks over at him he's staring out the window, not even doing anything. Ryan thinks about picking a fight but decides against it; doing anything with Brendon these days is just too much fucking _effort_. Nothing can ever be simple, nothing ever happens that Ryan doesn't find himself stressing or getting angry about afterwards, and Ryan's so tired.

He goes home and his dad's drinking again, home early from work and stumbling around in the living room. Ryan goes upstairs to his room and locks the door. He lies on his bed to start reading a book for English before he heads over to Spencer's for movie night, and then falls asleep almost by accident. He doesn't wake up until his phone buzzes, Spencer and Jon wondering where he is.

Ryan texts back, _on__my__way_, and leaves it at that because really, he doesn't even know. 

It takes Haley's exasperated question about what's _eating_ at him for Brendon to realize how jittery he is during his Sunday shift, has been all through the weekend and probably since Friday, possibly even since walking away from Ryan on Wednesday. He tosses the rag towards the sink and tries to stop twitching in place when he tells Haley that it's nothing, he's just in that state of mind where he's so tired that he turns restless.

She doesn't reply right away, and for a moment, Brendon thinks she's just going to let the issue drop. Then her gaze quickly sweeps over the few customers scattered about the place, no one seeming in need of immediate attention. She leans her hip against the counter and turns towards him, tone uncertain. "So, uh, Audrey mentioned that you live alone?"

Brendon could shoot her down with a short, scathing comeback, and she'd never ask again. Instead, he exhales through his nose and looks away from her curious expression. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I'm. I moved out, early summer. It was probably better that way."

"Wow." She pushes a strand of hair back behind her ears in what's probably a nervous gesture. "That sucks. Do you… Do they pay for anything, your parents?"

"My sister made it so I could still use the family healthcare insurance," Brendon says.  
>"That's about it."<p>

"I'm sorry," she says, quick and soft, and Brendon's about to tell her that really, that's great but pity doesn't pay his rent, when she adds, "You're very… strong, you know? I don't think I could do that. I'd probably sleep on their front porch and beg them to take me back or something, if they ever did that."

It's not like the thought never crossed Brendon's mind. She sounds genuine, though, like she really means it, so he lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug and doesn't contradict.

"Oh, by the way," she says, her tone much lighter, and Brendon feels almost grateful. "I totally forgot, that guy, um, Spencer? He was back yesterday, before your shift. Asked about you, if you were working, and we talked for a while. He's nice."

"Is he?" Brendon says flatly. He wonders what made Spencer come in here, what made him ask about Brendon. It's hard to believe Ryan would share his dirty little secret with anyone; he's probably inventing tales about their detentions to entertain his friends so that they won't suspect anything.

"Well," Haley says, uncertain again. "I thought so. I thought you knew him?"

"Not very well," Brendon says, and he thinks about Spencer's hand gently rubbing the back of Ryan's neck, thinks about Ryan leaning into the touch. Thinks about how he doesn't want that even a tiny little bit.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Part**____**4/9**_  
>Continued from <span>here<span>. 

Brendon's just about done, the floor swept, the chairs upturned and most of the twinkling Christmas lights switched off, when the doorbell chimes. "I'm sorry," he says without even bothering to turn. "We're closed already."

"Yeah, okay," Ryan says.

Brendon jerks around. It's only the light chain above the counter that still illuminates the room, a dim glow that changes from purple to blue to orange because Brendon thought that might keep him awake, and now it reflects on Ryan's face, makes him appear distant and removed. "What are you doing here?" Brendon asks.

"Honestly?" A dry laugh, entirely humorless. "I don't even know. Didn't feel like staying at home any longer."

Brendon takes a deep breath, his fingers twitching by his sides. "Okay," he says, and Jesus Christ, he's so fucking tired of it all.

"Okay?" Ryan asks, sounding faintly surprised. He adjusts the strap of his backpack.

"Okay," Brendon says. "I just need to lock up and all. I'll be outside in five."

"Yeah," Ryan says, "okay," and it's hard to tell with the light changing to a dark red, but he even might be smiling very slightly. 

They hardly manage to close the front door before they're shoving at each other, pulling at clothes, jerking together while Brendon sinks his teeth into Ryan's throat, unreasonably exhilarated when Ryan merely tips his head back and groans, low and helpless.

Afterwards, underwear sticky and limbs heavy and loose, they tumble onto Brendon's bed. For long seconds that stretch into a minute, maybe two, they're just lying there, breathing slowly evening out. Brendon doesn't want to move.

Ryan is sprawled over Brendon, legs tangled and Ryan's elbow digging into Brendon's side, and still Brendon doesn't want to move. He bites the inside of his cheek and pushes at Ryan's shoulder. Under his touch, Ryan tenses almost imperceptibly before he rolls off. They lie like that for another silent minute.

"Your sheets smell," Ryan says eventually, and Brendon thinks he sounds tired and doesn't care.

"Feel free to do laundry," he replies. He nearly pinches Ryan's forearm, close enough still to brush against Brendon's shoulder with each intake of breath. Brendon clenches his hands into fists and forces his body into motionlessness.

"I should get going," Ryan says.

Brendon turns his head just enough to study Ryan's profile out of the corners of his eyes, sharply cut against the darkness of the windowpane. They didn't even turn on the light. "Yeah," Brendon says, "you should."

"Yeah," Ryan echoes. "Spencer's probably expecting me by now. I told him I'd be there around eleven. So." He doesn't move.

Brendon rolls onto his side, away from Ryan. "Yeah, get the fuck out of here," he says, but it's lacking in heat.

The mattress dips when Ryan gets up. Brendon rolls with it, and he keeps his back turned while Ryan walks over to where he dropped his backpack, unzipping it. There's a faint rustle of clothes, maybe Ryan changing into clean underwear because right, wouldn't want precious Spencer to get suspicious.

Brendon waits for the front door to click shut before he rolls over onto his back and releases a long breath. He's surprised Ryan didn't slam the door on his way out. 

Sunday night, Ryan can sleep again. 

Brendon spends their whole Biology class on Tuesday tapping his pen on the edge of a desk and Ryan wants to kill him. It's fucking incessant, and nobody else seems to notice, or care, but it's driving Ryan crazy, and the last time he swivelled around and said, "_Stop_ it," Brendon didn't even react properly, just squinted in a slightly confused sort of way.

The tapping, Ryan thinks with maybe just a hint of melodrama, is drilling into his _brain_. Soon he's not going to be capable of independent thought, just following the stupid, twitchy beat of Brendon's pen until he goes crazy.

Finally he turns around again and says, maybe a bit too loudly, "For fuck's _sake_, Brendon!"

Brendon looks up at him, blinking, and Ryan realizes belatedly that the rest of the class is staring, too. Mr. Hurley looks kind of pissed.

"I think that's enough, Ryan," Hurley says. "You can go to the Focus Room for the rest of this class, thanks. We've all had enough of your temper."

Ryan stares back at him, incredulous, and then he slams to his feet. So he's maybe a little snappy today, what the fuck ever. Hurley's an asshole. Ryan shoves his books into his bag with a little more vehemence than usual while Jon watches him and bites his lip, and _fuck__Jon_, Ryan thinks, _fuck__anyone__who__looks__at__me__like__that_. He's pissed off for no reason, and Brendon wouldn't stop tapping his pen and Ryan couldn't stop noticing it, and now Jon and Spencer are going to talk in quiet, worried voices and ask Ryan: _are__you__okay?_Like _anyone_ is okay.

Wentz is supervising the Focus Room today, which sucks, because Ryan actually really likes him, respects him as a teacher and thinks he knows what he's talking about, and he was really disappointed not to be in Wentz's English class this year. Wentz just smiles kind of gently up at him and passes him the form to fill in, and Ryan sits in the middle of the room because the back is taken up by freshman kids who think talking back to a teacher makes them cool, and glowers.

His lunch period is taken up by sitting there and "thinking about his actions" (and really, there's a _reason_this particular school penalty is mostly designated for freshmen; it's considerably less harsh than detention, and designed to make one feel as silly and young as possible) so by the time he gets to detention, he's in an even worse mood.

Brendon is walking there at the same time as him, and he looks at Ryan with this faintly amused glance, mouth twitching in the corner like he wants to laugh. Ryan _hates_him. He says, "Hurry _up_," when Brendon walks in the door first and then closes it behind him, shoves Brendon up against the closed door and kisses him hard.

Ryan is in a _bad_mood, he _deserves_ this, and it's Brendon's fault he had to go to the dumb Focus Room, anyway. Brendon makes a little, surprised noise against his mouth and Ryan kisses him harder, nipping at Brendon's lips, wondering whether Brendon will punch him if he bites hard enough to draw blood.

Brendon makes an irritated noise and breaks away, breathing harshly. "Jesus, Ross," he says. "You wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?"

"Fuck you," Ryan says automatically, and Brendon rolls his eyes, pushes back off the door. He walks Ryan across the room, until Ryan is pressed up against the back wall.

"Yeah, whatever," he says, and kisses Ryan again, not so hard. He reaches for Ryan's jeans, popping the button and tugging the zip down, pushing Ryan's pants down low enough that Brendon can curl his hand around Ryan's cock and pull it free of Ryan's underwear. Vaguely, Ryan is aware that this is a very bad idea, that the supervising teacher could walk in any moment, but Brendon's hand is wrapped around his dick and Ryan can't quite bring himself to care.

Brendon breaks away and looks a little uncertain for a moment. He stays like that for just long enough that Ryan opens his mouth to say something, but before he can Brendon is taking a deep breath and sinking to his knees. Ryan has barely a moment to think _is__he__going__to__—_and then _oh,__fuck,__he__is_, and then Brendon leans forward and licks at Ryan's cock, tongue curling hesitantly around the head, and Ryan makes a tiny, helpless noise. Brendon pulls back and licks his palm, getting it wet and wrapping it back around the base, and then he looks up at Ryan, eyes narrowed.

"If you move," he says, "I'll bite," and then he slides his mouth over Ryan's cock and sucks, tentatively, and Ryan doesn't move, doesn't move, just drops his hands to Brendon's head and rests them there. Brendon's hair is slightly greasy and definitely tangled, but Ryan doesn't comment. He stays very still.

Brendon moves slowly, carefully, sucking his way down until he makes a tiny choking noise and pulls back up again. Ryan's had blowjobs before and this is definitely not the most refined, or even the best he's ever had, but it's still a blowjob, and Ryan lets his head fall back against the wall with a dull thud, eyes slipping closed. He doesn't really want to look down and see Brendon at his feet, not with Brendon's mouth hot and wet around his cock, and Ryan's breath coming in staggered gasps.

Brendon makes an inquisitive sound, humming around Ryan's cock, and slides down further, meeting his fist with his lips. Ryan makes a tiny choking noise, eyes flying open, and manages to say, "I'm gonna," and then Brendon is pulling off quickly, scrambling backwards, and Ryan reaches down and touches himself, and comes all over his hand.

He keeps his head leaned back against the wall, closes his eyes again and concentrates on breathing for a moment. Then he tucks himself back into his underwear, wiping his hand off on the inside of the cotton, and opens his eyes, forces himself to look at Brendon. Brendon is watching him, head tilted to the side, almost curious. His mouth is red and swollen, and Ryan looks down automatically. Brendon's not hard, but Ryan doesn't really blame him for that.

"Uh," Ryan says, awkwardly. "Thanks?"

Brendon's mouth tilts up slightly in the corner, like he's trying not to laugh again. He shrugs and says, "Don't mention it."

Ryan chews the inside of his cheek. "You want me to," he starts, but Brendon cuts him off, shaking his head almost frantically.

"No," he says, and Ryan nods. They don't speak anymore, but Ryan keeps looking up to find Brendon watching him. 

For once, they work quietly and efficiently, and by the time they come out of the record room, Ryan feels calm (calmer) and accomplished. The teacher sends them off with a distracted wave, and they step out into the corridor one after another, setting off for the parking lot. To an unsuspecting outsider, it probably looks like they're walking together when they really just happen to be walking next to each other.

When Brendon turns towards the bus station, Ryan does, too. Brendon gives him a pointed glance. "Walking me home, Ross?"

Maybe it's because Ryan still feels the mellow glow of orgasm humming through him, only an echo now, or maybe it's because for all that Brendon's tone is irritatingly arrogant, Ryan thinks he detects a hint of uncertainty underneath it. Either way, Ryan lifts one shoulder and keeps walking. "I'm going to Jon's place. This is where the bus stops.."

"Oh, awesome," Brendon drawls. "Make sure to keep me updated on your social schedule."

"Whatever," Ryan says, and he keeps his face carefully blank. He hopes that the bus isn't late, again. He's tired of always waiting.

Ryan turns his head just slightly to find Brendon staring straight ahead, shoulders curled in. Brendon's lips don't look swollen anymore, but they're still full and red, and Ryan quenches the burst of arousal that shoots through him. When he flicks his gaze up to Brendon's eyes, Brendon is looking back at him evenly, and his eyes are dark.

It will be another fifteen minutes until Ryan's line arrives. He clears his throat. "So, uh. When does your bus get here?"

Brendon lifts one brow. "Seriously, Ross, _again_?"

"Don't jump to conclusions," Ryan says flatly. "It was just a question."

"Small talk?" Brendon shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and that brings him a few inches closer. Ryan thinks about reaching out to grab Brendon's wrist and clenches his hands into fists.

"I fucked your mouth less than two hours ago," Ryan says. "Don't you think we're past small talk?"

Brendon's head jerks nearly imperceptibly. "Jesus, you make it sound so…" He trails off and angles his body away.

"Sound so _what_?" Ryan asks. The denim of his pants feels coarse and prickly under his palms, a little damp. Their bodies paint long shadows on the pavement, much taller than they are, and Ryan thinks about how it's funny that those who stand in the sinking sun cast the longest shadows.

"Cheap," Brendon tells him, turning suddenly, and Ryan recognizes that posture, the tight set of Brendon's shoulders, his narrowed eyes. "I'm not cheap, okay?"

Ryan can't quite hide his surprise. "I never said you were. You're frustratingly arrogant, yeah, and you think so highly of yourself you can't even find a goddamn _friend_, but—"

"I got down on my fucking _knees_ for you." Brendon's lips have thinned into a near-white line. "Totally arrogant of me, huh?"

"I don't—" Ryan begins, but he doesn't know how to follow that up. "I mean, what, I didn't _ask_ you to! You want me to return the favor, right here? So that we're even?"

"No, thanks," Brendon says tightly. For a moment, Ryan thinks that Brendon's about to lean in and kiss him, or maybe hit him, and he tenses just in case. Then Brendon pulls back abruptly, steps closer to the curb as his bus pulls up, and Ryan didn't even notice it coming.

He wonders if he should say goodbye, just… out of politeness or something. Then Brendon gives him a disparaging glance over his shoulder while the bus doors open with a hiss. Ryan bites the inside of his cheek and glares back.

Whatever, then. It's not like he cares. 

The thing is, Brendon sort of maybe expected to look a little different somehow, just slightly, like it'll show in his face that he had another guy's dick in his mouth. Like it's the sort of thing that'll make him look slightly more mature or something, but he looks exactly the same as he did this morning, dark circles under his eyes and his hair flat against his skull. His mouth isn't even particularly swollen or anything, only his lips are somewhat dry.

"You're an official cocksucker now," he tells his reflection. Then he feels silly and turns away, switching the bathroom light off.

He didn't even like it all that much. It wasn't _bad_ or anything, the taste less bitter than he thought, but it wasn't particularly sexy. Mostly he just tried to figure out how to accommodate the stretch of Ryan's erection without choking, and Ryan is anything but small, so it was probably quite a challenge, considering it was Brendon's first time.

Ryan didn't sound like he was about to complain, though.

Brendon remembers the rough, soft noises that Ryan couldn't suppress entirely, the almost painful expression on his face, deep concentration marring with pleasure, and then the full-body shudder just before he came. Brendon palms his cock through his pants in something of an afterthought to the memory, and he's hard, very much so.

Ryan offered to return the favor. He will, one day, and Brendon pictures that – Ryan on his knees, glancing up at Brendon through his lashes before he takes a deep breath and leans in, and Brendon doesn't think Ryan's done that, is pretty sure that Ryan's been on the receiving end more than just that one time, but never the one taking it, never the one who had to figure out how to move his head, how to flatten his tongue and cover his teeth. Brendon thinks he'd like to do that, gripping Ryan's hair to guide him, and Ryan would pull back to protest, glaring up with his eyes dark and his cheeks flushed, but he would open his mouth when Brendon tugged him back in.

Brendon slides his hand into his pants and leans back against the kitchen cabinet, closing his eyes. It doesn't take more than a few strokes before he comes all over his hand and jeans. 

Ryan doesn't like feeling like he owes anybody anything, and seeing Brendon makes him even more uneasy than usual at the moment, so he spends the rest of the week avoiding him. He makes sure to come into Biology and English late whenever he has them, head down and not looking at Brendon, and he manages to slip away if he thinks he sees Brendon coming down the same corridor as him.

It's a little childish, maybe, but Ryan is suddenly too conscious of Brendon, looking or not looking, wondering what the appropriate reaction is when they walk past each other. He wants to make a face, glare at him or sneer, lip curling, but it's harder: Brendon on his knees, Brendon at the bus stop, _I'm__not__cheap_. Ryan fucking hates not knowing where he stands.

After lunch on Thursday, though, he's thinking about the upcoming test when he heads to class from his locker, and he's too caught up in his own head to think properly or manage to avoid anyone. He turns around the corridor and there's a group of the Mormon guys in Ryan's Biology class, standing in a line with their backs straight and their arms folded. One of them, flanked by the others on either side, is talking in a low, earnest-sounding voice, and Ryan can't make out the words but he can see Brendon over the guy's shoulder, lips in a thin, white line, shaking his head.

Brendon's locker is open next to him; Ryan thinks vaguely, _it__looks__like__he's__been__cornered_. Ryan should turn around, he knows, walk away, because he doesn't care and he doesn't want to look at Brendon, but instead he stays, almost transfixed, eyes fixed on Brendon's face. Brendon looks hunted and desperate, and as Ryan watches, he shakes his head again, and again.

Eventually, one of the guys takes a step back and the others follow him, turning towards Ryan and walking away. Brendon doesn't look at them, just turns back to his locker and Ryan watches for a moment, Brendon shoving stuff in his bag awkwardly, and Ryan thinks, _no,__it's__too__full,__you're__going__to_— and then it does, Brendon's hands slipping and the contents of his schoolbag tipping sideways and all over the floor.

Ryan moves, then, stepping forward quickly, and Brendon looks up and stares. He looks furious, and Ryan doesn't mind that, not really, he's used to Brendon being pissed at him. He doesn't care, anymore.

He plans to walk past, maybe say something sharp and calculated to make Brendon clench his fists, but instead he finds himself stooping to pick up Brendon's wallet, where it's skidded along the floor. He picks it and up and chucks it, and the throw is too slow and easy and deliberate to be anything but Ryan passing it _to_Brendon, rather than at him. Brendon catches it effortlessly and then just stands there, staring at Ryan, and Ryan walks past, keeps walking past, doesn't turn around, doesn't want to. 

Ryan has barely even time to close the door between Wentz and them before Brendon is attacking him, shoving him into one of the cabinets with his hands gripping Ryan's waist so tightly there'll be bruises. Ryan doesn't protest, just opens his mouth and allows Brendon to push his tongue inside, press his body tightly to Ryan's, one of Brendon's legs between Ryan's thighs.

Idly, Ryan wonders if the Mormon kids cornered Brendon again, or if some customer made Brendon grit his teeth through a smile. Brendon brings his hips forward and up in something like a shimmy, and Ryan closes his eyes, head thumping against the cabinet with a hollow echo.

They both still.

It takes only a moment longer for the door handle to move, and Brendon tears himself away and around while Ryan drops to his knees and grabs the first pile of records he can reach. "Everything alright in here?" Wentz asks.

"Just slipped," Ryan replies because it doesn't look like Brendon will, his back towards Wentz, and Ryan can still detect an erratic rise and fall of Brendon's chest through the faint motions of his shoulders. He jerks his head away.

"If you say so," Wentz says, eyes sharp on Ryan's face. Ryan ducks his head and starts sorting, and after a moment, Wentz nods and goes back into the other room, but leaves the door open.

Ryan can hear Brendon exhale before Brendon sinks to the floor, glancing over his shoulder only briefly. Ryan raises a brow and Brendon angles his body away.

They work in silence for the whole two and a half hours of detention. 

The corridor is deserted when they finally get to leave the stuffy, cramped room. They tell Wentz goodbye and walk a few brisk paces before turning a corner, and Ryan doesn't know quite how it happened, but he's suddenly back to kissing Brendon, his hands bunching the fabric of Brendon's too-thin t-shirt, the lockers banging as they move into each other with an utter lack of grace. The wet sound of kissing and Brendon's half-gasped breaths sound obscene in the silence that surrounds them.

Footsteps from around the corner make them break apart, flushed and panting. Brendon's eyes are dark, dark, and it takes Ryan a moment to move. Randomly, he thinks about how they haven't spoken a word to each other in more than two hours. Brendon falls into step beside him.

Outside, it's still warm and humid. Brendon is looking at a point between Ryan's shoulder and his ear and jerks his chin towards the bus stop. Ryan follows. 

Ryan would have thought they'd be back to tearing at each other as soon as they were inside Brendon's apartment. Instead, the door falls shut behind them and they stand undecided for a moment, and then Brendon turns towards his fridge. "I'm really hungry," he says, the knots of his spine standing out under his t-shirt. There's an obvious pause before he adds, "D'you want anything?"

"What do you have?" Ryan asks, and thinks, probably not much. He walks over to Brendon's stereo, crouching down to inspect the number of CDs stacked around it. There aren't that many.

"Three power muffins," Brendon replies. When Ryan twists to give him a bland look, Brendon shrugs and peels the paper off one, speaking around a mouthful. It's a little disgusting. "Leftovers from yesterday at the Hut. Manager said I could take them, and they're not bad."

"If you say so." Ryan turns back to the CDs. Chances are that Spencer's mom put some curry and rice aside for him, so there's no need for him to have some weird, supposedly healthy power muffin for dinner.

Brendon doesn't reply, but Ryan can hear him peel the paper around a second muffin off. Ryan goes back to sorting through Brendon's CDs. There are two albums by the Beatles (that Ryan knows more from nights under the stars, Jon getting out his guitar), the first album Britney Spears put out, and Muse's Origin of Symmetry.

"Seriously, Britney?" Ryan asks, opening the case of the Muse CD. He sticks his index finger through the hole and makes the CD rotate around his knuckle.

"Are you rooting through my stuff?" Brendon asks, mouth full.

Ryan looks at the CD, then at Brendon. "Yes?"

"Oh." Brendon frowns. There's only a bare light bulb dangling above his table, and it makes him appear older somehow, or maybe just more tired. Ryan puts Muse into the stereo, turns the volume up and rolls to his feet.

Brendon watches him warily. "You know that the neighbor's gonna be knocking on that wall in less than a minute?" he asks, voice raised to carry over the music.

"The one who was watching talk shows last time, loud enough to entertain the house?" Ryan takes a step towards Brendon, and it's a small room, so there isn't much of a distance between them anyway.

Brendon nods and wipes at his mouth to get crumbs of the muffin away.

"Fuck him," Ryan says. He grips Brendon's forearms and pulls him into an open-mouthed kiss, licks over Brendon's tongue to taste the remnant of the muffin, faintly sweet, like honey. Brendon leans into him while the music swells, and it could be almost romantic except for how the song is about bitterness and destruction.

Ryan pushes Brendon back against the table and drops to his knees.

It's a strange perspective, the bulge in Brendon's pants up close, and Ryan doesn't let himself think about it when he drags the zipper down. Brendon isn't wearing any underwear. Ryan thinks about how that must be pretty uncomfortable, chafing against Brendon's skin, and he wraps both hands around Brendon's cock as he flicks his eyes up. "Bit optimistic, aren't you?"

Brendon's appears to need a moment to focus. "What?" he says. His hands come up to cradle Ryan's skull.

"No underwear," Ryan clarifies. "Thought you'd get some?" He pushes Brendon's jeans down to his knees and dips forward just enough for his nose to brush the tip of Brendon's cock. His breath fans over the sensitive skin.

"Have to do laundry," Brendon replies. His voice sounds rather unsteady already.

Ryan's nod makes his nose drag along Brendon's cock, and Brendon's thighs tremble just slightly. Ryan takes a deep breath and parts his lips.

"Shit," Brendon mutters, fingers flexing in Ryan's hair. Ryan scrapes his teeth lightly along the tip of Brendon's cock, a warning, while he's still covering the base with both hands. He's not prepared for how that makes Brendon shudder before he stills. Ryan fights his gag reflex and tries to adjust to the sensation of a cock in his mouth.

It's weird, really. The tiles are hard under his knees. He doesn't feel remotely sexy, not at all like the pretty boys in some of the videos he found on the internet, but if the sounds Brendon's making are any indication, a low stream of curses that mix with Ryan's name, Brendon isn't complaining.

Ryan experimentally flattens his tongue against the underside and slides down another inch. Brendon's hips jerk forwards and shit, Brendon's cock isn't even that big; it's about as thick as Ryan's is, but definitely not as large. Ryan has to give Brendon a lot of credit for that thing on Tuesday.

Doesn't mean Brendon gets to just hold his head and fuck his mouth. Ryan pulls back and glares up at Brendon. "Don't push it," he warns.

After a moment, Brendon's eyes lose their glazed sheen and he manages a jerky nod, his fingers in Ryan's hair easing up. His brows are furrowed, and he's biting his lip, barely even blinking. Ryan lowers his lashes and moves back in.

It's easier this time, sliding down as far as he can, then back up, licking at the spot just below the head as he goes. He already tastes a hint of salty slickness on his tongue as he repeats the whole thing, Brendon's cock hot and heavy on his tongue, again, and again, and he thinks he might maybe get the hang of it just as sudden warmth floods Ryan's mouth and he jerks himself away, surprised. Brendon's hands are still hindering his motions, though, so no small amount of Brendon's come ends up on Ryan's cheek and his shoulder, wetting the t-shirt.

"The _hell_?" Ryan says, sitting back. He wipes at his cheek. "At least _I_ had the decency to warn you."

"Sorry," Brendon says quickly, breathless. There's a flush spreading from his ears to his mouth, and for once, he doesn't look shuttered and haughty.

"Well," Ryan says, and it's not as sharp as he thinks it should be. "Now I need to change my t-shirt before I go to Spencer's."

Brendon slides down to the floor as well, and he doesn't seem to care about being half-naked. "You can borrow a t-shirt of mine," he says, and before Ryan gets a chance to ask if at least that will be fresh, Brendon is already kissing him, lapping at Ryan's mouth as if he's trying to taste himself.

Brendon pulls him roughly up to his feet and then gets one hand down Ryan's pants while nudging him backwards towards the bed. Ryan is barely half-hard, but Brendon's thumb swipes over the head, then along the ridge just below, and Ryan can feel the blood rushing down. He allows Brendon to push him down onto the mattress and sinks into the kiss, giving back as good as he gets while Brendon's hand strokes him into full hardness.

He realizes that he hasn't really had the chance to watch Brendon properly before this, eyes shut and kissing or trying to get Brendon off first, and it's different, watching Brendon with his eyes on his hand and Ryan's cock, biting his bottom lip, almost concentrating. It's good, too, of course, and Ryan groans and tips his head to the side, pressing his cheek against the covers and breathing heavily. He thinks, _laundry__day_, and figures that Brendon will strip the bed after he leaves, go down to the twenty-four hour Laundromat he's seen down the street once Ryan's gone. He doesn't know why he's thinking about such inanities at all, really, only that he is, and then he's not thinking about anything at all, vision going slightly blurry, arching his hips up into Brendon's grip and coming.

For a moment, neither of them move, and then Brendon wipes his hand on the sheets and tips to the side, lying next to Ryan. They don't touch, but Ryan tilts his head and watches Brendon's torso lift as he breathes, resists the urge to run his fingers down the bumps of Brendon's spine. He tilts his own head slightly to the side, sniffs at his shoulder; he can't tell, properly, but he's fairly sure he smells of spunk. And of Brendon, too, probably (not that Brendon wears cologne – it must be his deodorant, Ryan figures). He thinks suddenly that Brendon's probably ready to go again and Ryan will be in a minute, too. He could stay here longer, kiss Brendon again and mumble some flimsy excuse that he _knows_Brendon will buy. Maybe, he thinks, for a wild, dumb moment, he could help Brendon with his laundry.

Instead, he pushes up into a sitting position and shoves at Brendon's shoulder. "Hey," he says. "Can I use your shower?" 

Brendon thumps his tiny, shitty TV again until the colors settle and then lies back down on his mattress, uncomfortably aware of the sound of the shower in the next room. It's hard to focus on Jay Leno when his thoughts keep returning, inevitably and a little over-excitedly, to the naked guy in Brendon's bathroom, but, to be fair, it's not like this is something Brendon's used to.

He glances at his phone; Ryan's been in there for nearly seven minutes, so Brendon's guessing he won't be much longer. He doesn't need to know anything about Ryan's showering habits to predict that, and sure enough, a few moments later, Ryan shrieks.

"Jesus! Jesus _fuck_!"

Brendon giggles into his blanket, turning the volume on the TV up. The water shuts off and a few moments later, Ryan appears in his jeans, drying his hair and looking bedraggled and disgruntled.

"Your shower went fucking _cold_!" he snaps, and Brendon turns his head, grins at Ryan.

"Oh," he says. "Did I forget to warn you?"

Ryan scowls and drops the towel, and Brendon looks at his skinny chest and swallows, looks away. Ryan says, still sounding pissed, "Where's the shirt, then?"

"What's the magic word," Brendon says automatically, and then rolls his eyes and gestures at the chest of drawers shoved haphazardly in the corner of the room (Kara helped him move it from his bedroom to the apartment, what feels like a lifetime ago). "I don't know, look for it yourself."

Ryan makes a huffy noise and goes to rummage through Brendon's drawers. Brendon keeps his eyes fixed resolutely on the TV.

"There's like, nothing here," Ryan says, exasperated.

"Duh," Brendon says. "I'm doing laundry tonight." Ryan waves something triumphantly over his head, and Brendon smirks. "Sure, Ross," he says. "That's one's all yours. Bible Camp pride, yeah?"

The t-shirt goes sailing through the air and lands on Brendon's head, and Brendon pulls it off with a glare in Ryan's direction. He didn't mean to smile, before. He's just not used to other people in the apartment. Clearly, he thinks, he has an innate gift for hospitality.

Ryan says, "This one looks okay?" and Brendon turns around, and stops. It's just a red v-neck, a little bit wrinkled from being crumpled in a ball in the back of Brendon's drawer, but clean enough, and Brendon forces himself to nod. He knows why it's clean, too, knows that it was what he wore when he left, when his mom gave him an awkward hug and Kara cried into his shoulder.

"Yeah," he says. "Whatever."

Ryan pulls it on over his head, gets tangled up a little, trying to put his head through the sleeve, and Brendon watches him, can't help it. When Ryan emerges from the cloth he looks rumpled and slightly disorientated, almost childlike in his blinking confusion, as though it seems impossible that he's managed to get himself tangled up so. Brendon laughs, short and a little cruel, and Ryan glares at him and pushes his hand back through his wet hair.

"Anyway, thanks," Ryan says, ungraciously. "I'll give it back on Tuesday."

"Yeah," Brendon says, and shrugs. He turns his gaze back to the TV and keeps a vague eye on Ryan out of the corner of his eye; Ryan's folding up his dirty t-shirt and shoving it in the bottom of his schoolbag, and then he hesitates for a moment. Brendon keeps his eyes fixed on the TV, shoulders hunched, and finally Ryan makes an exasperated noise and crosses the floor to him, dropping down beside Brendon on his knees.

"_What_," Brendon begins, and then Ryan pulls roughly at his hair, tilting his face up and biting down on his lip, hard and fierce. Brendon scrambles upwards despite himself, tugging Ryan in closer, hands clenched in Ryan's (Brendon's) shirt, and licking into his mouth. Ryan groans and Brendon swallows the sound, teeth clacking, foreheads bumping, and Brendon's skin feels like it's burning up.

Ryan breaks away, but doesn't go that far, breathing harshly against the corner of Brendon's mouth. He mutters, "I have to—"

"Yeah," Brendon says, and moves back fast enough that Ryan loses his balance, has to throw out an arm against the mattress to save himself. "Yeah, go keep precious Spence entertained."

Ryan glares at him and slams the door when he leaves, but Brendon just rolls back on his mattress and laughs, feels oddly, stupidly triumphant. 

Ryan is late to movie night. It's one of those things that never happened before – before detention, but now it's the third time in a row. Spencer opens the door with a questioning expression. "Jon's already upstairs," he says. "You hungry? There's something left in the fridge."

"That'd be great," Ryan says because now that he's not distracted by the immediate possibilities Brendon represents, he notices that he actually is hungry, stomach churning with it.

"Come on, then." Spencer leads the way, tone oddly heavy, and Ryan follows him with a feeling of unease that isn't only due to the empty hole in his stomach.

There really is a plastic container with curry rice waiting for Ryan, with a note stuck to it that says, _Save__for__Ryan!_in Spencer's writing. Ryan briefly thinks about Brendon, munching on his last muffin while waiting for his laundry to be done. Then he shoves the image away.

When they get to Spencer's room, Jon looks up from where he's sprawled on the bed. "Did you know that traveling to the Nile will be a life-altering experience, and you shouldn't forget to bring a book to interpret dreams along?"

"Watching the astrology channel again?" Spencer asks.

Jon nods seriously. "They have all the best hosts."

"Also," Ryan puts in, dropping his backpack while juggling a spoon and the plastic container, "nowhere else will people tell you that the house of your love is illuminated by the current position of the sun, or something like that."

"True," Jon says, rolling over onto his back, grinning. "New shirt?"

Ryan sits down on the edge of the bed and carefully opens the container, chewing on his mouthful. When he glances up, Spencer has joined Jon in watching him expectantly. Ryan sighs. "Are you sure you're not gay?" he asks Jon.

"Pretty sure," Jon says. "However, I do remember more than just one of your ramblings about how red really wasn't your color. This shirt's red."

"And you're late," Spencer says. "Again."

"Sorry," Ryan says quickly.

"Ryan." Spencer's tone is cautious. "Are you… What's going on? Something's wrong, we know it is, and—It's not your dad, right?"

Ryan shakes his head and swallows some food down while trying not to meet their concerned eyes. The rice is dry and gets stuck in his throat. "My dad is fine," he manages. "Relatively speaking. You know. No worse than usual."

Neither Jon nor Spencer say anything, just continue watching him expectantly. The rice isn't just too dry, it's also tasteless. Ryan glares at the screen where some soap opera couple is arguing, the woman's hands thrown up angrily.

Ryan coughs and sets the container down on Spencer's bedside table. "Um, so. The shirt is Brendon's."

"Brendon _Urie_?" Jon says, sitting up with a start.

"Um." Ryan shrugs and nods a little, plucking at Spencer's bedspread. Ever since they accidentally spilled Coke on Spencer's bed, his mom makes him cover it up before movie nights.

Spencer sits down heavily, and when Ryan glances at him, Spencer's face is set in a thoughtful frown. "Brendon Urie," he repeats, as if to himself. Then he looks over. "I thought you hated the guy's guts?"

"I do," Ryan says immediately, almost too fast.

"Which is why you're wearing his shirts," Spencer says dryly.

"Just the one." Ryan tugs it down, keeping it from riding up over the waistband of his pants. "It's just. My own was… It had something on it."

Another moment of silence before Jon chokes on his laughter. "That," he gasps out, "is _so_ the universal code for cumstains."

Spencer snorts out a laugh as well, but after two or three seconds, when Ryan doesn't say anything, just continues sitting tense and silent, Spencer quiets and narrows his eyes. "Seriously?" he says. "I mean, _seriously_?"

Ryan glances at him, then back down at his hands. "Um," he says stupidly.

"No, wait." Spencer holds up a hand. "You hate the guy's guts, but somehow, you got cumstains on your other shirt, and Brendon Urie just happened to be around to lend you a shirt."

"It just happened," Ryan says.

"Right, right." Spencer shakes his head, looking disbelieving while Jon's expression is considering. "I mean, right. Is that why you're late? Why did he have a spare shirt, anyway?"

Ryan bites down on his tongue until the sharp prick of pain makes him feel less embarrassed. "We were at his apartment."

Spencer's mouth opens, then closes again. The disbelief in his eyes slowly fades into something Ryan isn't sure he's more comfortable with; amusement with an edge of skepticism. "You were at his apartment," Spencer repeats. "He has an apartment of his own?"

"No details, please," Jon pipes in. "I can live without knowing whose spunk that was, thanks."

Ryan ignores him. "Yeah," he tells Spencer. "I think his parents kicked him out or something? I'm not even sure yet, but… It's a pretty shitty apartment."

"It wasn't the first time," Spencer says, sounding like someone putting pieces of a mosaic together. "Your detentions with him, you've been weird for a while, and when we were at that smoothie shop and he left to take his—" Spencer cuts himself off, and Ryan looks up with a feeling of dread. "Jesus fucking Christ," Spencer says, "you_followed_ him. I was talking to Haley, but it took you too long to get back from the bathroom, and. _How_ did I miss this?"

Ryan thinks about taking the management by information overkill route. Instead, he flops down on the bed and glares up at the ceiling. "It's nothing, okay?" he tells them, voice hard. "We're just fooling around, like, experimenting. That's all. We don't even like each other."

"I don't know," Jon says slowly. "There's always been something peculiar about how you two just… circled each other."

"It's _nothing_," Ryan repeats harshly, daring them to argue. It's silent for long seconds. Then Spencer clears his throat.

"So, we thought we could watch Insider," he says.

"Fine with me," Ryan says, nodding.

He doesn't really relax until the first few scenes have passed and he's settled on his stomach between Jon and Spencer, both of them comfortable and warm beside him. Ryan isn't sure he feels relieved now that he's told them. At the very least, though, it will be good not to have to make up bullshit lies about detention anymore.

He props his chin up on his palm and smiles a little at the screen. Al Pacino fucking _rocks_. 

On Monday, they have a big school assembly with boring alumni guest speakers, one of whom rambles on for what feels like several hours. Spencer inconspicuously goes to sleep on Ryan's shoulder while Jon stares at the chair in front of him with glazed eyes, and Ryan sits there and wonders if it's possible to like, will yourself to death. Or sleep, he supposes, but death would actually be a really nice alternative to listening to the guest speaker any longer – and they still have Mr. Way to go. Ryan likes Mr. Way, he really does, but onstage Way tends to forget about that pressing need to _finish_, and will go on tangents about graphic novels and old art movements and the aesthetics of horror movies for hours at a time if no one stops him, and no one ever does.

He hears a teacher hiss, "_Brendon_," and looks up instinctively. Across the row, Brendon is blinking up at Ms Salpeter while jumping his knee up and down compulsively, and Ryan smiles into his lap despite himself. It _is_just like Brendon to fidget ridiculously, and hey, Brendon getting into trouble is always something that Ryan's down with.

Later, though, when they're all filing out, Jon and Ryan start re-enacting Mr. Way's speech for Spencer. Ryan intones, "And then Batman – remember this, children, that he is my soulmate, and Catwoman is simply an evil distraction sent to test his faith—" and behind him, Brendon laughs.

Ryan turns slightly, and Brendon's mouth twists into a sharp, antagonistic line, the laughter fading from his eyes. Ryan flushes despite himself, and hopes that Spencer and Jon didn't notice. 

The thing about detentions now is that Brendon still doesn't know what to expect. Ryan seems kind of calm on Tuesday, already there when Brendon arrives, with his legs folded and his chin resting in his hands, gazing out the window. Brendon lingers uncertainly by the door anyway, and then, when Ryan doesn't move, takes a loud step inside.

"Planning on working anytime soon?" he asks, and his voice sounds loud and harsh in the quiet room.

Wentz rocks backward on his chair and peers in the room, watching them warily. "Calm down, Brendon," he says. "How about you two leave the door open today, huh? I have some grading to do out here, anyway."

Brendon stuffs his fists in his pockets. "Fine," he says. Ryan looks annoyed, and Brendon walks to the corner opposite Ryan, drags the pile of files he was working on last time towards him. They're almost at the bottom of them, he thinks – good thing, too, because this is the last week of semester, the second-to-last detention.

That startles him for a moment, and he wonders, insanely, what's going to happen. He glances over at Ryan and Ryan looks up just in time to see him, and furrows his brow, and they watch each other for a moment, both on the edge of glaring, but not quite there yet.

Ryan shifts uncomfortably on the hard floor. "Hey," he says, voice low. "I forgot to bring your shirt."

"Uh," Brendon says, not sure how to react. "Okay? Whatever, asshole, I don't give a shit."

"Well," Ryan says, and then stops. He looks defensive, one shoulder drawn up, looking at Brendon like Brendon's some sort of wild animal, liable to attack at any moment, and then he mumbles, "I mean, my dad's not gonna be back until late, so if you, like, wanted to come and get it…"

"Oh," Brendon says. He lifts one shoulder in a shrug and says, "Yeah, okay, fine."

"Alright," Ryan says, still looking tense and unhappy. He turns back to his pile of work and Brendon spends about ten seconds looking at the curved line of his back through his shirt before he remembers what he's meant to be doing.

The hours drag, and it seems like forever before Wentz finally sticks his head around the door and says, "Alright, boys, see you later," and then adds, grinning kind of stupidly, "Nice work on not killing each other." Ryan smiles a little at that and Brendon picks up his schoolbag with unnecessary force, thinks viciously, _fucking__teacher's__pet_.

Brendon trails after Ryan when they get outside, and Ryan mumbles, "Come on," and heads for the student parking lot.

Brendon blinks and says, without thinking, "You have a _car_?"

"Uh, yeah," Ryan says. "It's kinda old, I don't really take it out much, but it's gonna rain today. And I didn't want to catch the bus, so."

"Okay," Brendon says. He stops and laughs when they get to where Ryan's… _thing_is parked, though, cruel and short. "Ross, I'm really sorry to have to be the one to tell you this," he says, with great glee, "but that's not a car. That's a pile of metal junk balanced on some wheels."

Ryan scowls at him. "Fine," he says. "Get your own ride home."

Brendon laughs again and hops in the car (watches Ryan look around the parking lot quickly, and thinks, well, whatever, I don't want to be seen with _you_, either) because it's not like Ryan means it. Brendon is confident enough to know that Ryan doesn't want him to actually go away before Ryan gets off, and Brendon is perfectly happy with this turn of events.

It's a short drive to Ryan's house, less than ten minutes, but they're both silent and it feels awkward and frozen. Brendon reaches out for the radio but Ryan shakes his head and says, "Doesn't work," and Brendon snorts and refrains from saying _why__am__I__not__surprised_, and drums his fingers on the arm rest by the window instead. Ryan gives him an annoyed glance and Brendon smirks, does it louder and faster until Ryan's gritting his teeth in a really satisfying way.

Ryan's house looks like something ordinary and mundane in the middle of the suburbs, but Ryan seems to get tenser when he pulls into the driveway, gets out and locks the car after them. Brendon lingers behind him, looks at Ryan's hunched shoulders as he opens the front door and thinks, tiredly, _don't__be__an__asshole,__Ross.__I'm__not__gonna__pollute__your__precious__fucking__home._

He steps inside and the house smells kind of musty, closed up and old, and there's the weird, pervading scent of alcohol, too. They walk past the kitchen and there's a small collection of empty bottles on the table; Ryan's face is shuttered and blank and Brendon feels something strange and unwelcome stir in his stomach.

Ryan says, "Anyway, my room is just up—" and doesn't bother finishing, leads Brendon up a small flight of stairs and into the first room on the left. The bed's unmade, a small stack of Ryan's schoolbooks sitting next to the computer on his desk, but the first thing that strikes Brendon is how unlived in it looks, how empty and waiting.

Everything is so tidy, apart from the bed, and Brendon blinks around in surprise. It's not like he knows Ryan, or whatever, but – he's _seen_the careless way Ryan does things, the haphazard piles of things in detention, the wet towel he left in the middle of Brendon's living room. Ryan isn't looking at him, and Brendon swallows hard and says, evenly, "You spend a lot of time with your friends, huh?"

Ryan rounds on him. "What the fuck's that supposed to mean?" he spits, and Brendon takes a step back, bumps into the door.

"Nothing, Ross, chill," he says, and then he closes the door behind him and Ryan is on him, mouth hard and fierce against Brendon's, hands scrambling to undo Brendon's fly. Brendon makes a small, surprised sound even though he knew, he _knew_ what was coming, and then he walks Ryan backwards across the floor, hands firm on Ryan's hips. Their teeth bang awkwardly when Ryan stumbles and falls backwards onto the bed and Brendon follows him, sprawling across him hard enough that Ryan makes a surprised, huffing noise.

Brendon tangles his fingers in Ryan's hair and smiles crookedly down at him for no real reason, except that Ryan looks so fucking unhappy and Brendon thinks that won't make doing anything much fun. Angry he can work with (angry he's the fucking _master_of), but it's just boring to have Ryan all sad, so he kisses Ryan warm and deep, slow, and does his best to be gentle. He keeps Ryan's wrists pinned up above Ryan's head and mouths at his throat, presses his lips against Ryan's pulse. He kisses Ryan and kisses him and kisses him, until Ryan is languid and almost relaxed under him, which is kind of weird and unusual but not that bad, either, and then he kisses Ryan some more until Ryan manages to get his hands free and clings to him almost blindly. Brendon mumbles something that even he can't make sense of into Ryan's mouth and Ryan's hands are digging into his back through his shirt, Ryan gasping when Brendon rocks his hips down once, twice, and for some reason this feels more like sex than anything they've done before.

It's nice to take his time, after all. After a moment, he slides down and pulls down Ryan's jeans and takes him in his mouth, and it's cool and kind of interesting to see how Ryan reacts differently this time, less surprised, lazier about it. When he puts his hands to Brendon's hair he smoothes a strand out of Brendon's eyes before he seems to remember where he is, and then he tugs the same curl, a little grumpily, and Brendon resists the urge to laugh softly (even if he thinks that would probably feel pretty awesome, laughter around your cock, and maybe if they were different people, maybe then Brendon would be allowed to laugh, to kiss things _better_rather than just _away_).

Afterward, Ryan returns the favour and they lie and stare at the ceiling, not touching but close on Ryan's single bed. Brendon's brain is still kind of hazy, body slow and sluggish, but after a moment Ryan rolls away and down to the floor, and then he picks up the folded t-shirt on his desk and chucks it at Brendon.

"Here," he says, and then, "My dad's gonna be home in like, an hour."

"Okay," Brendon answers. He stands up slowly and picks the shirt up from off of Ryan's bedspread, and then he goes downstairs, doesn't linger by the kitchen and the open bottles, picks up his bag from where he dropped it at the doorway.

He's halfway down the driveway before Ryan appears at the door, looking a little breathless. "Hey," he says. "You want me to drive you back?"

Brendon switches his backpack from one shoulder to the other, eyes dark and considering. Ryan looks smaller than usual, framed by the doorway of the house he doesn't quite inhabit properly. At least, Brendon thinks, at least my apartment's a _sort_of home.

"Yeah," he says, finally, and then surprises both of them by adding, "Thanks." 

Ryan is a slow, careful driver, but the time to Brendon's apartment still passes in a rush, and they're halfway there before Brendon even blinks. He doesn't realize he's jiggling his leg until Ryan reaches over blindly and covers Brendon's knee with his hand, never taking his eyes off the road. Brendon stills.

Ryan takes his hand away to switch gears. His fingers are slender and elegant on the gearstick, and Brendon has to swallow and look away, out of the window. It's only a moment later that Ryan's hand is back on his knee, and he doesn't think he was fidgeting this time, but maybe he didn't even notice.

"We're here," Ryan says quietly, unnecessarily, as he pulls up in front of Brendon's apartment complex. His hand leaves Brendon's knee.

"Right," Brendon says. He awkwardly twists to get his backpack out from between his legs, and then he stops and glances over at Ryan, thinks of how Ryan's expression just went _blank_ when they entered his father's house, the house that seemed to be veiled in a grey haze of alcohol. "You want to come up?" Brendon asks, before he can start listing all the reasons why he shouldn't.

"Yeah," Ryan says. His voice is even, but something about the line of his shoulders loosens.

Brendon nods and pulls his door open, says, "Come on, then," and he doesn't look over his shoulder to see if Ryan follows. He knows Ryan's right behind him, because Ryan would rather be anywhere than in his own, unlived room. He doesn't even have posters on the wall.

They mount the stairs in silence, Ryan's breath somewhat accelerated behind Brendon. The light bulb on the second floor is broken and no one bothered to replace it, long shadows crawling along the walls from the light on the first and third floor. Brendon turns his head, and Ryan's eyes are dark as he pushes Brendon backwards against the railing. It creaks with his weight, trembling.

Ryan hesitates. Brendon makes an impatient sound and pulls him in, their mouths meeting roughly, desperately, and Brendon closes his eyes and sucks on Ryan's bottom lip, biting until it's swollen and red and Ryan is panting into his mouth.

Ryan pulls away abruptly. "Your apartment," he says.

"Yeah," Brendon replies a little stupidly. He manages to push himself away from the railing, standing on uncertain legs before he swallows and sets off for the next flight of stairs, Ryan warm and close behind. 

Brendon's apartment – his room, whatever – smells of sweaty skin and dirty sheets. The only light they turned on is the one above Brendon's stove, dim and sickly. Ryan shouldn't feel comfortable here.

He's stretched out on his back on Brendon's bed, Brendon's elbow digging into his side. For all that they're still clothed, haven't even touched since that moment on the stairs, Ryan's skin is too hot. His hands are twitching. "Fascinating ceiling," he says flatly.

Brendon snorts. Then he rolls over and onto Ryan, pressing down with the whole weight of his body, reaching for Ryan's wrists. His thumbs press into the pulse points.

Ryan gives him an unimpressed look. "You know that I could flip us over?"

Brendon hums vaguely. "You tried and failed before," he says. His eyes are focused on Ryan's throat, and then he dips his head and sinks his teeth into Ryan's skin and shit, that's going to leave a mark. Ryan rolls his head aside for better access.

"I succeeded just as often," he replies, and he doesn't know why he even keeps talking, Brendon clearly isn't interested in what he has to say.

Brendon pulls back. "Only if you played dirty," he says, thumbs moving on Ryan's wrist in slow, hypnotizing circles. Ryan bites back a groan. He doesn't know why Brendon's suddenly all about teasing touches, but it makes his stomach clench in on itself, something very much like fear.

"Only when you deserved it," Ryan says, adding, "asshole," for good measure.

Brendon just narrows his eyes at him, shaking his head, and when he grinds his hips down and covers Ryan's mouth in a fierce, bruising kiss, Ryan closes his eyes and stops thinking. He doesn't resist when Brendon tugs his clothes off, and while he feels uncomfortable under Brendon's scrutiny, exposed with Brendon still fully clothed, he doesn't avert his eyes when their gazes meet and hold for just a moment.

Then Ryan inhales and pushes Brendon over onto his back, tugging at his jeans. "Helps if you undo the zipper," Brendon tells him, amused and not quite even. Ryan deliberately presses the heel of his hand against Brendon's visible erection when he thumbs the button open and drags the zipper down, and he's satisfied when Brendon jerks into the touch.

"I think I can manage," Ryan says.

Brendon grins at him, just for a blink of an eye, and then he turns his head away and bites down on his lower lip when Ryan fondles his balls. Ryan pulls both Brendon's jeans and boxers off entirely before he takes Brendon's cock into his hand, warm and heavy. He watches his fingers against the red, flushed skin and tries to control his breathing. This is just sex.

Ryan slicks two fingers up with his own spit, keeping his hand steady on Brendon's cock. Brendon's eyes fly open when Ryan probes at his entrance, really just spreading spit around the hole that feels strange and too-dry against his fingertip. He's aware of Brendon intently watching his face, but Brendon doesn't tell him to stop, so Ryan doesn't.

The first inch isn't that difficult. Brendon clenches around him, impossibly tight, and Ryan has no idea how people fit something as large as a cock in there. He wiggles his finger a little before withdrawing it, bending his head to tongue the vein on the underside of Brendon's erection as he pushes his finger in again, further this time. Brendon twitches into him and produces a strangled gasp that Ryan interprets as encouragement.

He twists his finger and lets only the head of Brendon's cock slide into his mouth, keeping his left hand firmly wrapped around the base. Something that might be Ryan's name falls from Brendon's lips, reverberating in the silent apartment. Ryan crooks his finger and pulls off before he moves in again, going as far as he can with his mouth stretched wide, and he doesn't think he likes this, not really, but Brendon's half-choked moans make it almost worth it.

Then Ryan twists his finger, still so tight he doesn't dare add a second one, and Brendon's hips jerk up suddenly, Brendon's face flushed when Ryan glances up at him. "What?" Ryan asks.

"Do that again," Brendon tells him, almost an order, but his voice is husky and unusually deep. Ryan twists his finger once more, pulling out and pushing back in while he sucks slowly, carefully, and Brendon comes with a loud curse.

Ryan sits back on his knees, withdrawing his finger and wiping both hands off on the sheets. He absently notices that Brendon never even took off his shirt. "Well," he comments, "that was pretty fast."

For a long moment, Brendon just lies panting, chest rising and falling. Then he flicks his eyes up at Ryan's face and reaches for Ryan's cock, and it doesn't take more than a few strokes for Ryan to be fully erect. When Brendon pushes him down onto his back, Ryan goes easily, and he watches Brendon's concentrated expression until his vision narrows and fades out around the edges. 

Afterward, Ryan goes and washes his hands and when he comes back, Brendon is crouching in front of the fridge, tilting his head to survey the food inside. He doesn't look up at the sound of Ryan's footsteps, but he does say, "You want something to eat?"

"Uh," Ryan says. "What do you have?"

"I got Chinese food on Sunday," Brendon tells him. "There's some of that left over, if you want."

"Okay," Ryan says. "Fine."

Brendon pulls two cardboard boxes out of the fridge and shoves one gracelessly at Ryan, pulling over a drawer to get out some forks. He says, "Glasses and shit above the sink if you're thirsty."

"I'm alright," Ryan says, pushing hair back out of his eyes. Brendon shrugs and heads back towards his mattress, sitting down heavily on it and leaning forward to switch the TV on. There's an old rerun of _Friends_, and he looks briefly triumphant and then wary, glancing over at Ryan. Ryan settles next to him cautiously. He doesn't mind that much, anyway. Jon's obsessed with _Friends_, and Ryan thinks it's okay.

The noodles are cold and greasy, but they don't taste that bad, and Brendon shovels his down pretty quickly, eating with his mouth open and staring at the screen. Ryan glares at him and makes small, disgusted noises but Brendon doesn't appear to care, casting him a vaguely condescending, amused look at one point.

Ryan picks at his own food. He's sort of peckish, but not hungry like Brendon looks. He thinks about how rarely he sees Brendon in the cafeteria, wonders if it's because Brendon doesn't eat there or because Brendon doesn't _eat_.

"I'm full," he says, and pushes the carton towards Brendon. Brendon shrugs and takes it, and Ryan presses his nose into Brendon's sheet. They smell like sex, smell like_Ryan_, and for one stupid, insane moment, Ryan thinks about how nice it would be to just stay here, because at least he can make Brendon shut up, if he needs to, and because—

He scrambles to his feet. "Anyway, bye," he says, forcing himself not to hunch back into himself. Brendon looks up at him, gaze dark, face blank.

"Okay," Brendon drawls, like he couldn't care less, and Ryan flushes red. Onscreen, the laugh track plays, loud and obnoxious, and Ryan turns around, thinks about walking out the door and down the stairs and driving home, and he thinks about it with relief, because Brendon's presence might be preferable to his father's, but it's also a lot more frightening. At least Ryan knows what kind of danger his dad is.

"Bye," Brendon says suddenly, soft, and Ryan closes the door as he leaves.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Part**____**5/9**_  
>Continued from <span>here<span>. 

The rest of the week gets steadily worse; Brendon's getting hardly any shifts, because the management have gone and hired a bunch of Christmas casuals, who'll get fired after the holidays are done and for now work more and get paid less than Brendon, and he's already regretting splurging on Sunday for the take out food (and then wasting some of it on Ryan fucking Ross). He's slipped from an A to a B in physics, which isn't going to look good on college applications and means he's going to have to work harder over the Christmas break to get back up to date on that, his apartment refuses to retain any heat whatsoever, and to top it all off, Jason and all his friends from Brendon's old church corner him again and start talking earnestly about forgiveness and Christmas spirit and coming home. It's still a cold shock to realize that he's actually sort of looking forward to detention.

But Friday afternoon comes, and Ryan isn't there.

The other Mr. Way is, though, the principal's kind of spacey brother who works in the admin office, and he looks blankly at Brendon and then says, "Oh, hello. Time to get started?"

"Where's Ryan?" Brendon demands, folding his arms. "I won't do it if he doesn't."

"Sick," Way says, looking absently down at his notes. "His father called in this morning. You're still expected to do your work."

Brendon slams his hand against the wall uselessly as he goes in, furious and skin itching for something, for anything. "Fuck this," he mumbles, but starts sorting anyway, because he doesn't have a choice, because it's the last day of semester and the last detention and the work is almost done, because he doesn't have anything better to do.

When he comes out, the older Mr. Way has joined his brother, and smiles at Brendon. "All done?" he asks, and smiles when Brendon nods. "Nice work then, Brendon. I'm sorry you had to finish up today on your own, but there shouldn't have been much left."

"It was alright," Brendon mumbles, staring at the floor. "It was kinda unfair."

"We can't help Ryan being sick," Mr. Way says. "Hopefully next term you two will be able to control yourselves a bit better."

"Sure," Brendon says, shifting his bag from shoulder to shoulder, and resists the urge to add _whatever_ because, _really_. He doesn't think their principal is that naïve. (He thinks about Ryan's mouth, Ryan's hands, and swallows hard.)

"Okay, then, Brendon," Mr. Way sighs, looking kind of regretful. "I'll see you next semester, then. Have a good vacation."

"Yeah, thanks," Brendon says, sidling out past him. "You too. Bye!" 

He walks into his apartment, drops his schoolbag, looks around, and then walks out. It's too fucking – he doesn't want to be home tonight, not when he feels jittery and cheated out of something. He considers the show Haley told him about, a pop-punk college band playing close to where he works, and then he thinks _fuck__it_and hops on a bus heading back towards the inner city.

The show is five dollars at the door and Brendon thinks, _this__is__a__waste_ and pays it anyway. He hasn't been to see live music in ages, and the first band is already on, so he shoves his way through, up to the front. It's not particularly good music, but it's loud and right there in front of him and the drummer is pretty awesome, so Brendon catches the beat in his bones and moves with the crowd.

It's been way too long, he thinks, pushing his face up to the lights, jumping to get a mouthful of air, wincing when someone's elbow glances off the side of his face. He even starts to like the music a little, in the same inevitable way he always does, because the lead singer is really charismatic and even manages a little bit of funny patter between songs, out of breath and sweating. Brendon thinks, _yeah,__this__was__a__good__waste__of__five__bucks_.

Someone shoves up hard against him from behind, harder than usual, and when Brendon turns his head they grin a little sheepishly and shout an apology. Brendon smiles at them and then, out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of dark hair and eyeliner and a mouth he knows too well. He moves before he's even aware of thinking, elbowing his way through to the side and throwing a punch. It's badly balanced and off-centre in the rush of the crowd, but it slams against Ryan's mouth hard enough, and Ryan stumbles backward. Brendon thinks grimly that he's got Ryan's attention _now_, at least.

Ryan looks at him, hard and angry, and he shoves back at Brendon, and the middle of a semi-hardcore mosh is definitely not the place to do this; when Brendon attempts to punch him again, the crowd shifts and they tumble out towards the edge, badly aimed fists connecting just often enough for Brendon to feel dizzy, vision a little blurry when Ryan's fist thumps awkwardly at his temple.

"What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?" Ryan shouts, baring his teeth. "Fucking little psycho!"

"Yeah?" Brendon yells back, throat feeling raw, voice harsher even than he means it. "Where the fuck were _you_today? I had to finish the whole goddamn thing by myself!"

"Oh, have a cry," Ryan snarls, and Brendon swings out blindly against him again.

A big, burly guy shoves at him in an annoyed kind of way and says, "Leave it, you two," and Brendon turns on his heel and walks away, towards the wall, away from the heaving crowd and Ryan.

"_Hey_!" Ryan yells, and then he's up next to Brendon again, face twisted in fury. "Don't you fucking walk away from _me_—"

Brendon swings around and grabs at Ryan's shirt, tugs him in close and bites at his mouth. He's already really sweaty from the crowd, his shirt damp and sticking to his skin, but Ryan isn't at all; his skin is just hot to the touch, feeling like it's burning against Brendon's hands. Brendon wonders stupidly if maybe Ryan only just got here, but then Ryan's shoving him backwards, letting Brendon bump into people who jump out of the way, annoyed, until Brendon's pinned up against the wall, Ryan's hands on either side of him, trapping him in the tiny space.

They kiss hard, biting and licking, and Ryan is pressed up so tight against him that Brendon can't even worm a hand in between to grope at Ryan's dick, which he supposes is probably a good thing – this venue is pretty dodgy, but there's still only so much that they can get away with. Ryan bites his lower lip hard enough that Brendon gasps, back arching up even closer towards him, if that's possible, and Ryan takes one hand away from the wall, smoothes it over Brendon's side, and sucks slowly at his lip, almost conciliatory. Brendon doesn't know what to do with that, so he just hooks one leg out and around Ryan's, balancing a little awkwardly, breathing hard into Ryan's mouth.

Something buzzes unexpectedly against Brendon's thigh and he jolts, almost falling when Ryan pulls back suddenly and tugs his phone out from a too tight pocket. He answers and says immediately, shouting above the noise, "Sorry, sorry, where are you—" and then, "I'll be there in a sec."

He looks at Brendon and then leans in close, mouth hot on Brendon's ear. "I have to go," he says, clearly. "I have to – I'm meeting friends here, I can't just pull out on them—"

"Sure, whatever," Brendon says. His mouth tastes strange to him; he pushes out and away from Ryan's body warm against his and walks away, too conscious of Ryan's eyes on him. He doesn't feel like dancing to the band anymore, and when he looks up once he sees someone else watching him, heading towards him, and Brendon turns sharply for the door. Instead, he goes outside, out into the cold, fresh night, and walks a few paces before he stumbles and sits down heavily on the edge of the pavement, tapping his feet in the gutter.

_Fucking__waste__of__five__dollars_, he thinks dully, and ignores the ache in his throat, his gut, the lingering feeling of Spencer Smith's eyes burning into him. 

"Did I just see Brendon Urie walk out of here?" Spencer asks before he's even really by Ryan's side. He looks as amused as he look curious, and Ryan doesn't know why that bothers him. From an objective kind of view, the whole thing probably is kind of amusing. Still Ryan isn't laughing.

"Yeah," he says, and then, when Spencer merely continues studying his face, Ryan jerks his chin towards the mass of dancing bodies. "Come on, let's go."

Spencer's hand on his shoulder stops him, and Ryan remembers suddenly, sharply, that moment in the cafeteria, with Spencer's hand on his neck and Brendon glaring from across the room. "So did you fight?" Spencer asks, too loud into a weird lull of the music. "Or did you kiss?"

Ryan slumps against the wall and tips his head back. For some reason, he doesn't really want to see Spencer's grin right now. "We kissed," he says dully. "And then you called, so I sent him away."

"What, and he just left? Without a fight?" Spencer leans his hip against the wall, raising a brow. "Wow, Ryan, kind of an asshole-ish thing to do. I mean, even for your standards."

Ryan makes his voice sharp, but he doesn't look at Spencer. "Because you'd have wanted him to join us here, right? Yeah, I'd rather not have you bitching at me all day tomorrow."

"I hardly _know_ the guy," Spencer says. "I just know he got you more riled than pretty much anything else these days. Until," his grin is audible, "you exchanged fists for mouths, or whatever it is you do."

Ryan bares his teeth. "You want details?"

"Thanks, no." Spencer shakes his head, but the grin doesn't fade. "I'm just saying, I heard Urie's a mouthy little bitch, but it's not like I spent enough time with him to know for sure. And getting kicked out by your parents should give you some leeway, I guess. It's not like we don't let _you_ get away with some shit because of your dad."

Ryan squints up at the strobe light, sparks dancing through his vision when he blinks. "Where's Jon?" he asks.

"Went to find Cassie," Spencer replies. "Unlike you, he doesn't tell his dates to go away when his friends show up."

"It wasn't a date," Ryan hisses, and he isn't sure Spencer even understands him over the music, the thumping bass vibrating in Ryan's bones. "I didn't know he'd be here, okay? We just ran into each other." Almost literally, he thinks a little wryly, and then winces; his jaw still aches where Brendon landed a hard punch. Stupid little shit, he thinks, and doesn't, doesn't, _doesn't_feel guilty about not showing up to school and detention today. He and Spencer and Jon always take the last day of semester off, it's tradition, and he's not going to change that just because of Brendon fucking Urie.

Spencer shrugs and studies Ryan's face for another long moment before he nods. Ryan breathes out a relieved sigh.

"Let's go," he tries again, and this time, he doesn't wait for a reply, just sets off for the thickest throng of people. He knows Spencer will follow. 

Usually, Brendon's pretty good at distracting himself. Despite the temporary holiday workers, he manages to get shifts that carry him through the weekend, and the time he doesn't spend with a blender is spent catching up on his school work.

Monday is bustling with commotion at the Smoothie Hut, a constant flow of last minute Christmas gift shoppers trying to stock up on vitamins before the big feast tomorrow. Brendon drowns his thoughts in the tiring routine of smiling at customers and getting the mix of fruits just right, and even though he's working with Haley and some temp, he's barely aware that he isn't alone. When he gets home that night, he locks the door and falls straight into bed, too tired even to brush his teeth.

Tuesday, though… Tuesday. The stores are open until noon, so Brendon joins the mass of extremely last minute shoppers, lets them push him from store to store and looks at things he can't afford, for people who no longer care.

Come to think of it, this probably wasn't such a good idea.

Brendon spends nearly two hours in his favorite music store, flicking through new releases while an album he doesn't recognize plays low in the background. He's amongst the last people to leave, and when he steps out into the street, the city is nearly deserted already. Cheap Christmas lights twinkle in store windows, and it's really not that cold, but Brendon draws his jacket tighter around himself.

The neighbor's TV is off when Brendon gets home. He prepares some instant soup for only himself, humming a cheerful Christmas carol under his breath until he has to stop because his eyes are stinging. Kara's plant sits dry and reproachful on his table, and he empties a glass of water into the pot and tries not to think about how Kara's surrounded by family, won't be able to call for another day, at least.

"Just the two of us, huh?" he asks the plant. There's no reply.

The soup tastes stale and watery, and Brendon puts it into the refrigerator after just a few spoonfuls. He's still cold, so he wraps himself in blankets and sprawls on his stomach on the bed after kicking the TV into action.

Predictably, there's nothing on but stupid, bright Christmas specials, with laughing families and glittering Christmas trees and Sandra Bullock finding love while her alleged fiancée sleeps for the umpteenth time. Brendon lasts through about ten minutes before he realizes he's biting his lip hard enough to break skin, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay.

He throws a shoe at the TV, and for once, something in his life actually goes right and it hits the power switch, plunging the apartment into blessed silence. Brendon rolls over onto his back and stares up at the graying ceiling.

The wallpaper comes off in one corner. He thinks he should do something about it, but he can't bring himself to move. All he manages is to tug the blankets higher up, over his nose, breathing in the faint smell of sweat and sex that still clings to the covers.

He could do laundry; the Laundromat should be deserted today. Alternatively, he could jerk off.

He doesn't move and continues to stare up at the ceiling, eyes watering from the effort of keeping them open, until there's a knock at the door.

It takes another two knocks before he can even roll up to his feet, trying to work out if there actually was a knock, and he's not imagining it or hearing something else, and then a moment of stupid hesitation as he wonders who the hell is even _there_. Brendon can't think of any reason why any_one_would be here (it's not his mom and dad, he thinks, as he gets up and pads to the door, swallowing against the tight feeling in his throat; it's _not_his mom and dad), and he still can't think of any reason why when he opens the door and finds Ryan Ross clutching a white plastic shopping bag.

Brendon stares. Ryan glares at him, shifts from foot to foot, and finally says, "You gonna invite me in?"

"No," Brendon says automatically, but he moves aside slightly and lets Ryan come in, closing the door behind him. Ryan dumps the bag down by the doorstep and looks at Brendon's rumpled bed and then back at Brendon. Brendon has an uncomfortable feeling his eyes might be red. He folds his arms and snaps, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Ryan looks at him blankly. Brendon thinks with sudden fierceness that he hates that, that he doesn't care if Ryan's furious at him or annoyed or whatever, just as long as he isn't ignoring Brendon, just as long as Brendon can still affect him in some stupid, immature way. Brendon's sick of not being noticed, so he tilts his chin up a little cockily and says, "Seriously, man, it's pretty lame how—"

"Oh, shut _up_," Ryan says, looking impatient. Brendon opens his mouth and Ryan kisses it, swallowing the beginnings of a word.

Brendon makes a hungry, frantic noise and pulls Ryan in, and Ryan lets him, Ryan always lets him, Ryan gives back as good as he gets. Brendon hooks an arm around Ryan's neck and it could be almost, almost _real_except that he tightens it too much, hard around the back of Ryan's neck, and Ryan gasps and Brendon thinks that maybe, maybe later, there'll be bruises.

Ryan shoves Brendon backwards and they move awkwardly, tripping over each other's feet, unwilling to break apart. Ryan's hands roam all over Brendon, like he's unable or unwilling to settle, and Brendon arches into the touch despite himself. He thinks, _yes_, a fierce roar in his ears that just amounts to affirmation, _yes,__this__is__what__I__want_, and then he stifles that thought by biting hard on Ryan's lip and they tumble backwards onto Brendon's bed. Brendon grunts in pain when his back hits the mattress kind of hard, and Ryan accidentally elbows him in the stomach, but he can't quite bring himself to care, shoving a leg between Ryan's thighs, rocking up hard against him.

For a moment, Ryan pushes back down, and then he draws back slightly, breaking away from Brendon's mouth to fumble with the zip on his jeans, pushing his pants awkwardly down mid-thigh. Brendon copies him and then it's better, rocking together again. Ryan licks his palm and slides it around both of their cocks for a moment, and then the friction is even better, and Brendon can just, stop thinking.

"Ryan," he mumbles, almost by accident, and Ryan shudders above him, arms trembling where he's propping himself up slightly, and Brendon appreciates it, because Ryan's heavier than he looks. Then Ryan's coming all over their stomachs. He falls forward slightly, panting wet and open-mouthed against Brendon's neck, and then he slides a hand down and finishes Brendon off. It doesn't take long.

Ryan rolls off and to the side and then Brendon turns slightly towards him, knows this could be taken as weakness, that Ryan could do a hundred variations, equally awful, of shoving him away right now, and kisses him again anyway. Ryan doesn't push him away, though, just reaches up and tangles a hand in Brendon's hair, tugging it a little sharply, and they kiss sloppy and kind of desperate. Brendon rolls closer, half on top of Ryan, even though his dick is still too sensitive, sensory overload, and Ryan murmurs something incoherent and arches up against him, hand still in Brendon's hair, fingers stroking slightly at his head, almost gentle.

Eventually, Brendon needs to breathe properly and when he moves off, Ryan shifts out from under him, pushing his hips up into the air to wriggle back into his jeans. He doesn't seem very concerned by the come on his stomach which is, Brendon thinks, really gross, but then, Brendon can't quite be bothered to do anything about it, either. Instead he pulls his jeans up as well, and glances at Ryan warily, waits for him to get up and leave.

Instead, though, Ryan bites his lip and says, "I, I bought some stuff. To eat, I mean. If you're hungry." 

Brendon's oven is quite possibly the most temperamental cooking appliance (is an oven an appliance? Ryan doesn't know) Ryan's ever had the misfortune to encounter. It's not like he's an amazing cook (that's Spencer), but he's gotten pretty good at cooking for himself and his dad, sometimes, and he's gotten vaguely confident. He is beginning to think that this confidence was severely misplaced, and that it's possible he just hasn't met a worthy opponent just yet.

Brendon's oven is a worthy opponent, much like Brendon. He thinks that if he burns Brendon's apartment down by accident, Brendon will probably, like, rip out Ryan's throat with his teeth.

Brendon wanders over and says, "Oh, yeah, you have to have the timer on for it to work at all."

Ryan blinks at him. "I don't need to time it," he says. "I know how long it takes."

"Yes," Brendon says, sounding incredibly bored. "But you've still got to have the timer on. Or it just won't heat up."

"That's fucked," Ryan tells him. Brendon shrugs and goes and turns the TV on. Ryan listens absently, fiddling with the dials, as Brendon flicks through all the channels, where, judging by his low snarling at the set, he is apparently trying to find something not Christmas related.

"Uh," Ryan calls out. "You know you're not gonna find anything, right?"

"Shut the fuck up, Ross," Brendon snaps, and Ryan smirks, turns back to the oven.

After a few adjustments, he decides that it'll have to do and puts the frozen meals in their aluminum packages in there, closing the door with a creaking sound that makes Brendon look up. He's turned the TV off, but he's still crouched in front of it, bottom lip drawn into his mouth, like if he concentrates really hard he can make something good appear on the screen. Ryan stares at him, suddenly awkward.

"It'll take about fifteen minutes," Ryan says.

"Right," Brendon answers. His voice sounds surprisingly rough. Ryan nods and looks down and Brendon says, "Fifteen minutes – you wanna just—"

"Yeah," Ryan says. It's better than talking, anyway. He doesn't _like_Brendon; the last thing he wants to do is _talk_ to him. He walks over, almost awkward, and up close, Brendon still looks so tired, exhausted. Ryan moves without thinking, reaches out and traces the dark circles under Brendon's eyes, wonders _were__you__crying?__or__were__you__just__about__to_—and Brendon shudders under Ryan's fingers, looks down.

Fine, Ryan thinks, feeling his cheeks heat up with embarrassment, and he leans forward and kisses Brendon, mouths open and warm and Brendon curls his hands in the fabric of Ryan's shirt on either side and tugs him down until they're lying side by side on the mattress, making out kind of lazily. Brendon sucks on Ryan's tongue and Ryan pushes his hips forward instinctively, half-hard but not in a hurry for anything right now, and mostly they just lie close. Ryan thinks, _maybe__this__is__contentment_, and then feels sick and angry with himself.

It doesn't seem like that much longer when the buzzer of the oven goes off, so Ryan's kind of glad that they have the timer to remind them, in the end. He gets up and gets the meals out with a tea towel to protect his hands, and Brendon pulls out cracked plates and divides the potpie down the middle. It's not huge, enough for a large slice for each of them with no leftovers, and Ryan takes a seat at the table a little uncomfortably.

They eat silently for a while, Brendon eating fast again. Ryan thinks of half a dozen disparaging remarks to make about it but doesn't end up saying anything. He can't be bothered fighting, he thinks. He already hates Christmas enough.

Brendon looks up as if he can read Ryan's thoughts and says, "No, seriously, what are you _doing_here?"

Ryan bristles. "I don't know," he snaps. "Certainly not for the pleasure of your company."

"_You_came _here_, Ross," Brendon points out, sharply. "Let's not be a complete hypocrite, huh?"

"If you even know what that means," Ryan mutters sullenly, spearing a bit of pastry with his fork. Brendon shoots him an annoyed look and Ryan swallows hard, says, "I was bored. I. There was no one to talk to."

"Your dad not there?" Brendon enquires casually. Ryan digs his nails into his palm, forces himself to look normal. Brendon knows too much, he thinks.

"No," he says. "He's not. He's not at home very often."

"Who works on Christmas Eve?" Brendon asks, studying a point on the wall to the right of Ryan's ear intently.

"I didn't say he was working," Ryan tells him. He adds, fast and harsh, "Mind your own business, Urie," but Brendon just rolls his eyes, and they eat the rest of the meal in silence.

After they're done, Brendon says, "You gonna—"

"I have dessert," Ryan interrupts. He stares at the floor, can't bring himself to look at Brendon's face. "It's only, like, store-bought frozen cobbler but I mean. It's hot. And self-saucing or whatever. If you want some."

Brendon doesn't say anything for a long time, and when Ryan finally dares to glance up Brendon looks pale, and torn between fury and something more raw and unhappy. Ryan meets his gaze and Brendon says in a quiet rush, "I don't need your fucking pity—"

"It's just cobbler, Brendon," Ryan says.

Brendon releases a noisy breath. "Okay," he says. "Okay, fine, sure. Cobbler. Great." 

The cobbler's really good, even if Brendon doesn't admit it out loud. Instead he clears away their plates and says, "You wanna, like, watch a movie or something?"

Ryan gets up comfortably enough and wanders over to the small pile of DVDs by Brendon's laptop. He roots through them with his head bowed, and Brendon looks at the line of his neck and his back and clenches his hands into fists for a moment in his pockets, tries not to think about anything at all. Eventually Ryan picks out Ocean's Eleven and waves it with this weird, hopeful expression at Brendon, like Brendon's going to say _no_or something, and Brendon nods and looks away while Ryan loads it. He goes over to the counter, and then he frowns at the plastic bag that Ryan had brought the food in, because there's still clearly something in it, and—

"What the _fuck_?" Brendon says.

Ryan turns and Brendon holds the now empty plastic bag in one hand, and a packet of condoms in the other, something strange churning in his gut. Ryan stares at him. "Uh," he says. "I just—"

"You've got some fucking nerve, Ross," Brendon tells him coldly, and Ryan stands up, looking embarrassed and defiant

"Whatever," he says harshly. "It's not like we _don't_do stuff, and I just – I wasn't even going to ask. I just bought them in case."

"In case what?" Brendon asks. He walks closer. There's something tight and dark in his chest, and he thinks his voice is rougher than usual, which is a little embarrassing. "You want to fuck, Ryan?"

Ryan licks his lips, and Brendon's gaze drops to his mouth automatically. "If," Ryan says, and stops. He clears his throat. "If you want to."

Brendon looks at him, mind buzzing. Ryan is very close; he's almost standing on Ryan's toes, and he can feel Ryan's breath on his face, warm and smelling like the berry sauce on the cobbler. Brendon says, "Yes. Yes, we can do that."

"Okay," Ryan breathes, and he reaches out like he's been waiting for it and pulls Brendon into a kiss, knotting his hand through Brendon's hair. Something in Brendon is cheering automatically, because, seriously, _sex_, he's _not_going to die a virgin, the world is good again, but there's something else, too, strange and new in him, and he wishes Ryan wasn't so fucking rough when they sink to the ground, pushing the laptop away impatiently.

Brendon pulls his shirt up over his head, throwing it somewhere aside, and then helps Ryan with his, tugging it up over his head, and can't help smiling at Ryan when he emerges from the tangle of material, hair sticking up in a few directions. It doesn't take too much longer for them to get their pants off, and then Brendon realizes they're naked for the first time, Ryan long and lean above him. Ryan trips his fingers down Brendon's ribs, smiles tentatively down at him (and that feels new, too) and then leans down to breathe in his ear, "Spread your legs."

Brendon sits up so fast that their heads bang together hard. "_What_?"

Ryan stares blankly at him. Brendon can't _believe_his nerve. "Well," he says, in that stupid fucking monotone, "I mean, you were the one who liked it before—"

"You were _sucking__my__dick_ before!" Brendon says, a little hysterically, scrambling away. He stands up, puts his hands on his hips, and tries to look intimidating despite the fact that he's naked and hard. Ryan narrows his eyes and stands up, too. "I tend to like most things when someone's sucking my dick!"

"Okay, well, whatever," Ryan says. "You've had the experience, so I think it's only fair that—"

"—_you_have a turn," Brendon cuts in. "Seriously, Ross, what the fuck, I'm not going to—"

"And I _am_?"

Brendon glares. "You're the one who wears eyeliner."

"So what?" Ryan says. He sounds vaguely high-pitched. At a less crucial time, Brendon would probably find it kind of hilarious. "That doesn't make me the _girl_, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Shut up," Brendon says, scowling. "Shut up, shut up," and then Ryan lunges forward and punches him in the stomach and Brendon throws himself at Ryan. It's a vague blur of limbs and pointy elbows and if it wasn't for the fact that he's still kind of hard, Brendon's sure he could inflict some serious damage, but as it is they go down onto the mattress and fight seriously for about thirty seconds before Ryan tightens his grip on Brendon's hips and rocks up against him, and Brendon drops his head and groans and fuck, there is possibly, Brendon thinks, something quite seriously wrong with them.

Ryan's a little distracted, so Brendon sucks his fingers into his mouth, and then drops them down to trace a wet finger around the pucker of Ryan's hole. Ryan gasps and goes very still, and Brendon smirks down at him, darkly satisfied. 

"Well," Ryan says, a little while later. "_This_ is rocking my world."

Brendon glowers at him and wriggles his fingers a little more. They're coated liberally in lotion and he's doing his best, he honestly is, but so far Ryan hasn't done very much at all except wince and screw up his nose once in a while and, of course, offer the most fucking annoying commentary the _whole__time_.

"Shut up," Brendon says. "I'm _trying_."

Ryan huffs, propping his chin in his elbows, shifting uncomfortably. He doesn't really seem to be in much pain, but there's certainly no sign of any enjoyment, either. Brendon crooks his fingers a little desperately, trying to find that weird place inside him that had felt so good the other day. He's starting to think that maybe Ryan's just good enough at blowjobs that he could methodically whack Brendon over the head while he did it and Brendon would still enjoy it.

"Seriously," Brendon bursts out in frustration a little while later. "Maybe this is _your_fault, maybe you just have a weird ass—"

"Oh, come on," Ryan says dismissively. "This is about as sexy as you sticking your finger up my nose—"

"Maybe it's not – maybe I just need to," Brendon says, and looks down at where his cock is brushing up against his stomach, hard and leaking a little under the condom. Ryan sighs and sits up higher on his hands and knees, making a magnanimous and annoyingly condescending gesture that Brendon interprets as something along the lines of_get__on__with__it__then,__moron_.

"Okay, okay," Brendon says, and gets up on his knees, sliding his cock along Ryan's ass. Ryan makes a small, uncertain sound and Brendon grips onto his hips, says, "Alright, Ryan, I'm just – okay?"

"Fine," Ryan says, in a small voice. Brendon swallows hard and then pushes his cock into Ryan's ass slowly, pressing against the initial resistance. It's – he groans a little bit because shit, Ryan's so tight, hot and clenching around him, and Brendon's hands are trembling on Ryan's hips. Ryan breathes in sharply and says, "Fuck. _Fuck_."

"Good?" Brendon asks, tentatively.

"It fucking _hurts_, you fucking asshole motherfucker," Ryan snaps, and Brendon draws out slowly and then pushes back in again. Ryan shakes his head, and what Brendon can see of his face is slowly turning red.

"Okay, just, just wait," Brendon says, and after a while, small, steady pushes, Ryan seems to be in less pain. He still doesn't seem to be having any fun, though after a while he recovers enough to start being a complete jerk again.

"Oh," he says, in a dull, emotionless voice, "oh, harder, oh, faster, Brendon, yes."

"Shut up," Brendon pants.

"How can I," Ryan says, deadpan. "You're the best fuck in the world. I am going to write poetry about this moment. I'm just warning you, I might cry in a second."

Brendon grits his teeth and doesn't answer, but Ryan keeps offering up stupid little comments the whole time, and the only thing that Brendon can be thankful for is that with Ryan being such a loser, it's kind of hard for him to get in the right mood to come right away, which he had a feeling might be a problem at first.

Brendon's back is starting to get a little stiff, so he pulls almost all the way out and adjusts his angle slightly before pushing back in, and Ryan sucks in a breath and stops bitching. Brendon feels horrible for a moment, thinks, _I__really__don't__want__to_hurt _him_.

He leans forward to ask, before he can stop himself, "Hey, are you—" only that movement bring him deeper, and Ryan gasps and looks over his shoulder. "Oh," Brendon says, looking at Ryan's dark, hot eyes, and Ryan's hardening cock, and then he repeats mindlessly, "_Oh_." He does it again and watches Ryan's eyes slip shut, Ryan sliding forward helplessly onto his forearms and making this small, obscene little noise when Brendon pushes in again, and fuck, Brendon's not supposed to feel this ridiculously grateful, this elated. He doesn't really want to think or feel much about Ryan at all; he has a vague idea that that might be bad for him.

Instead, he leans forward again (Ryan shudders underneath him and moans, voice raw and louder than normal in Brendon's apartment) and presses his forehead to the back of Ryan's neck, closes his eyes and moves his hips in tiny circles, deep inside Ryan, until Ryan is gasping softly with each shift and Brendon can't help kissing him, mouth warm and wet on the top of Ryan's spine. 

They must have fallen asleep. Brendon doesn't remember much, just that they lay panting for a while, until Brendon pulled out, knotted the slippery condom and drew the blankets up over both of them.

Now, daylight filters through the old, ragged curtains. Beside Brendon, not quite close enough for their skin to touch, Ryan's chest is rising and falling evenly, his breathing nearly inaudible until Brendon starts listening for it.

He props himself up on one elbow and glares at Ryan's peaceful face, cutting off the confused stream of _he__stayed,__why__did__he__stay_ that floats through his head. Brendon's about to shake Ryan awake with a rough hand, tell him to get the fuck out of his bed before Ryan can leave without his prompt – and then Ryan's forehead creases in an unhappy frown, and somehow, that reminds Brendon of Ryan's expression at the mere mention of his father. Maybe the man's still out on some bender or just passed out on the couch, sleeping it off.

Brendon drops the hand back down to the mattress. He doesn't feel like getting up anyway.

For a few long minutes, Brendon settles back into the blankets. The apartment is as drafty as ever, though, and they fell asleep naked, and now that Brendon's awake, it's impossible to go back to sleep when there are light shivers running along his skin. Ryan is, for once in his life, _warm_, the fucker.

Very, very slowly, inch by inch, Brendon shifts closer. He doesn't want Ryan to wake up and think Brendon's doing this consciously, so he moves carefully, waiting for a beat after each tiny motion, eyes hard on Ryan's face. Then he's finally pressed up against Ryan's front, and Brendon's slightly hard, an automatic reaction by now, but it's easy to ignore for the moment.

He slings a leg over Ryan's hip, holding his breath. Ryan exhales, inhales evenly, and Brendon's warm now, wonderfully warm and comfortable, and he falls asleep thinking about how usually the only warm thing in his bed is him, and that's not so good, his skin burning fever hot. Nothing like this, nothing like comfort. 

Waking up is something like a low-level shock. Ryan's not the type of person who wakes up and is instantly lucid, so he's disoriented at first, and there's someone plastered hot and too-close against his back. "_Spencer_," Ryan grumbles, shoving one elbow back because what the fuck? Spencer is usually better at respecting Ryan's boundaries. Also, why are they naked?

Behind him, Brendon groans.

Ryan's eyes fly open, body stiffening instantly because, okay, _fuck_, what's he doing sleeping loose and defenseless in Brendon's bed? "The hell?" he asks into the sudden silence.

Brendon rolls away from him. It's what Ryan wants, really, it is, only his skin is a little sweaty where Brendon was snuggled up to his back – _snuggled_ up to his _back_ – and now that Brendon's gone, the skin is cooling. Ryan nearly shifts into him.

"I don't know," Brendon says, tone biting. "It's my bed, so you tell me what you're still doing here."

"Oh, fuck you," Ryan manages. It's weak, yeah, but he's just not a morning person. So whatever. He rolls onto his back, glancing at Brendon's shuttered face. There are a million things Ryan thinks he should say, but nothing comes to mind. They lie in silence.

Ryan closes his eyes, just for a moment. Tiredness still clings to his lids, makes them heavier than they can possibly be, and next to him, Brendon isn't saying anything, pointedly tense and rigid and naked. Ryan fights a yawn and inhales the almost familiar smell of damp walls and sweaty sheets. 

Ryan must have drifted back into sleep. When he wakes up, the apartment smells of grease and fried eggs.

He sits up, blankets falling down to his waist, and rubs a hand through his tangled hair. Brendon glances over from the kitchenette, bent over the stove, and he's wearing nothing but a pair of boxers even though the apartment isn't what would be classified as comfortably warm on any kind of scale. The knots of his spine are sharply defined. Ryan fists the blanket in his hands.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

Brendon's look is unreadable. "Scrambled eggs," he says.

"Oh." Ryan nods and scans the room for his boxers. Then he remembers he brought a spare, just in case. They should still be in the bag by the door. Even though he feels oddly exposed, he pads across the room naked, the dull twinge in his ass reminding him sharply of what they did last night.

First time on Christmas Eve. Shit, they're so fucking cliché.

When Ryan glances up, Brendon is watching him with dark eyes. Ryan swallows. "There's enough eggs for both of us, I guess," Brendon says, his tone even, blank.

"Yeah?" Ryan doesn't allow his face to reveal anything. He pulls the boxers out of the bag and quickly steps into them while Brendon never looks away. Ryan stands undecided for a moment, near the door, and then he walks over to the stove, leaning over the dark-brown mess that's supposed to be edible, Brendon uncomfortably close, so close it makes Ryan's skin itch, and he's not about to step back if Brendon isn't, is not about to give Brendon the satisfaction, _hell_ no.

Calmly, Ryan stretches around Brendon to grab a fork, and his elbow brushes Brendon's bare stomach. Ryan tries not to smile when Brendon's almost jumps under the touch. He spears a bite of scrambled eggs – and nearly spits it back out.

"What?" Brendon asks darkly.

Ryan shakes his head, and then he looks at Brendon's face, too pale and thin in the morning light. _Not__about__the__family_, Ryan thinks, _don't__ask__why__his__mom__didn't__taught__him__better_, and what he eventually says is, "Nothing. Just astonished you can't even get a fucking scrambled egg right. I mean, it's not that hard, you know? Don't burn, and don't oversalt."

For a long moment, Brendon merely looks at him, like he can read every single one of Ryan's stupid thoughts. Ryan keeps his chin up and his gaze straight. Suddenly, Brendon grabs the pan, turns and dumps the contents into the trash. "Fine," he says, tone scathing. "You do it, then. Asshole."

"_Fine_," Ryan replies unoriginally.

"Fine," Brendon mocks. Ryan pushes him away from the stove, somewhat gentler than he intended. To his surprise, Brendon gives in after just a moment of resistance, stepping out of the way and crossing his arms. Ryan sets about cracking the eggs into a bowl and pointedly ignores the realization that he's making breakfast. That it's the morning after Christmas, and he stayed the night, and he's making breakfast for Brendon and himself.

Whatever. 

Ryan's eggs are, Brendon will admit grudgingly, a little better than his own. He'll never say it aloud, although he's pretty sure he can work out a way for it to go to his favor; Ryan the pretty little housewife, maybe, Ryan paying him for— and then he realizes that brainstorming ways to piss Ryan off is maybe too lame even for him. He stays silent, scowls at his plate, and wonders how long Ryan's going to stick around.

A while, apparently; Ryan gets up to take his plate over to the sink and Brendon moves after him without even thinking, crowding him against the counter until Ryan turns around, kisses him, and then they end up jerking each other off right there. When Brendon rinses his hand under the tap Ryan looks at him with dark eyes and says, "Missed a spot," and sucks two of Brendon's fingers into his mouth, and Brendon manages to think faintly about how ridiculous it is, what stereotypical teenagers are, before Ryan is pushing him down against the mattress and they're making out again.

To Brendon's total horror, he accidentally falls asleep again, half crushed by Ryan's weight, and when he wakes up Ryan's still there, lying next to him and reading. Brendon squints at the cover blearily; it's one of his books, he thinks, but he hasn't read it.

"What's that?" he asks groggily, and Ryan turns his head.

"It was on your table," he replies evenly. "It's yours, isn't it?" He tilts the cover and Brendon reads _A__Prayer__For__Owen__Meany_, blinks at it.

"Uh, yeah," he says. "I think my sister gave it to me. I haven't read it."

Ryan says, fiercer than Brendon would have expected, "You should, it's really good," and then he flushes and shrugs one shoulder, turns away. Brendon tries not to stare.

They stay silent for a while, until Brendon finally asks, voice harsh, "Aren't you going to _leave_?"

Ryan closes the book and puts it off the mattress. He's slow about the movements, moving with an awkward kind of languidness, if that even makes sense, and it takes a while before he turns properly to meet Brendon's gaze.

"I was thinking," Ryan tells him, "that maybe I could. Just stay here. Again."

"The night?" Ryan nods, and Brendon cocks his head, mouth twisting. "I'm not a fucking home for wayward boys, Ross."

"If this is your idea of charity," Ryan retorts quickly, "then you're even more messed up than I thought."

Brendon shrugs, and keeps watching Ryan, considering. "If you stay," he says slowly, "can I fuck you again?" He winces a little bit at how it comes out, a question, but just saying _I'm__gonna__fuck__you_is too – Brendon's not _threatening_him. He's just wondering.

Ryan doesn't seem particularly put out, though. Instead he starts to smile, grin growing stupidly over his face, like he can't help it, dark and wicked and promising.

"I was kinda hoping," he says, and Brendon laughs despite himself. 

Spencer texts Ryan when Ryan's gone out to get them KFC for dinner ("Good old Colonel," Brendon says, dryly, "Keeping up the traditional Christmas dining,") and then, when Ryan doesn't reply in five minutes, he calls him.

"_Seriously_, Spence," Ryan complains, when he picks up. "I was just paying for shit, I was gonna reply in a minute."

"Yeah, whatever," Spencer says, no bullshit. "You alright?"

"Why, what do you mean?" Ryan drawls. "You're just too subtle for me, Smith, it's hard to follow the twists and turns of conversation—"

"Okay, then," Spencer interrupts, and Ryan can practically _hear_his grin. "What's put you in such a good mood?"

Ryan hesitates, switching his bag to the other hand. "Nothing," he says, eventually. "I hate this fucking holiday. You know that."

"Too late to change now, dude," Spencer tells him. "Is your – is your dad good, today?"

Ryan swallows and then, before he can lose his courage, says, "I don't know. I haven't seen him since like. Yesterday morning."

Spencer's quiet for a long time. "Are you at Jon's?" he asks finally.

"No," Ryan says, defensive for no reason. "And you know I'm not, so don't fucking give me that – don't be so fucking condescending—"

"Ryan," Spencer says, quietly. "What are you _doing_?"

Ryan pushes his hand through his hair, squeezing the phone between his cheek and shoulder. "He's. It's like, it's just another day for him, too," he says. "It's just… everyone's got family, except – so it's like we can just. You know. Fuck around. Whatever."

"You stayed the night?" Spencer asks.

"That was an accident," Ryan says, and doesn't mention what they're doing tonight, but Spencer's already too quick for him.

"And what are you doing now?"

"Nothing," Ryan says, too fast, and Spencer is pointedly silent. Ryan groans, says, "Getting dinner, okay, but—"

"_Ryan_."

"Seriously, Spencer!" Ryan explodes. "Will you fucking get off my back already! What do you want me to do? I can't hang out with _you_." Spencer sucks in a harsh breath, and Ryan's already regretting saying that, but it's too late now, and he breathes in once, heart hammering around in his chest, and then hangs up.

He takes the stairs to Brendon's apartment two at a time, and ignores the buzz of his phone. 

It's late when Ryan wakes up, but not dark, light from the street leaking in through windows without curtains. Ryan props himself up on his elbows, breathing hard, the remnants of a nightmare drifting slowly away, and Ryan feels cold all over, shivering uncontrollably, teeth chattering. He doesn't know where he _is_; the room feels dark and alien, and very unwelcome, something cold and full of hatred lurking in the shadows.

And then the warm body next to his rolls closer, half sitting up as well. "Ryan?" Brendon murmurs, sleepily, and Ryan doesn't say anything, can't, heart sitting somewhere full and afraid in his throat, but Brendon doesn't really need him to. Instead, he leans in and rubs his nose against Ryan's cheek, seemingly instinctive, mouth open and breathing against Ryan's cheek.

He nuzzles at Ryan's chin and Ryan leans into him without thinking, searching blindly for some sort of familiarity. "Hey, hey," Brendon says, drowsy, words blurring together. "Chill out, you're here, it's alright," and he kisses Ryan a little awkwardly, a wet, sucking noise in the dark night.

Ryan slips back down onto his stomach, and then shifts on his side, moving in close to where Brendon is warm and familiar and smells like boy. He thinks something weird and disconnected about this being bad in the morning, this weakness, but it's comforting, and Ryan falls asleep again pretty quickly. 

When Ryan wakes up, Brendon has already left the bed, sitting at the table as he shoves the remnants of last night's takeout into his mouth. He glances over when Ryan stirs, his expression giving nothing away. Ryan averts his eyes first, sitting up and running a hand through his hair as he looks around for his underwear. Some rarely used muscles protest to any movement he makes.

"Morning," Brendon says eventually, tone reluctant.

Ryan flicks his eyes over, then away. His boxers are in front of the TV, and he feels weird about crossing the floor naked while Brendon's somewhat dressed in a pair of boxers and a shirt. Then Ryan's annoyed at himself for feeling weird. It's just Brendon.

He throws the covers off and gets up while Brendon watches evenly. "My ass hurts," Ryan tells him.

"And why do I care?" Brendon says.

"Because it's your fault, moron." Ryan steps into his boxers and grabs his shirt from the floor. Brendon's apartment is really fucking cold, always drafty, and with the slightly damp walls, it's a wonder Brendon doesn't have cancer yet, or something, whatever.

"Come on, it's not like you weren't gagging for it." Brendon gives him a look filled with contempt. "You want me to kiss it and make it better, or what?"

Ryan straightens, squaring his shoulders. "Well, _you_ try having a dick up your ass, let's see how much _your_ ass hurts after."

There's a significant pause while Brendon puts his fork down. "Okay," he says. 

"You know," Brendon's voice is tense, "it felt kind of better when you were sucking my dick, and it was only one finger."

Ryan raises his head, enough to shoot Brendon an incredulous look. "I thought you weren't going to complain?"

"I wasn't going to complain if you did this _right_," Brendon mutters. His face is drawn tight, teeth chewing on his lower lip. The sky is grey outside, painting Brendon's skin in pale colors. Ryan crooks his fingers before he pulls them out, trickling more lube onto his hand. When he twists them back in, Brendon's still too-tight around him. At the rate they're going, Ryan won't get to fuck Brendon for another _week_.

The thought makes him turn his wrist and shove in a little too hard, touching a spot he's been brushing up against before, but suddenly, Brendon gasps, eyes closing, mouth falling open. "So this is right, then?" Ryan asks, repeating the motion.

Brendon slits his eyes open for a glittering glare. "Shut up," he grits out. "Shut up and do that _again_."

Ryan pulls his fingers out. Brendon's gathering up a storm of insults, it's easy to tell from the expression on his face. He bites them back when Ryan pushes his fingers back in along with a third, and the angle is awkward because Brendon refused to get on hands and knees, but at least this way, Ryan can watch Brendon's face. He jerks his wrist and Brendon twitches back into it.

The lube makes strange, slick sounds with each glide. Ryan spreads his fingers and Brendon's looser now, much more relaxed despite how tense his arm muscles are from gripping the sheets. "Hey," Ryan says softly.

Brendon props himself up on one elbow, scrunching up his face, and Ryan kisses him, twists his fingers and swallows Brendon's gasp. "Yeah," Brendon mumbles, low and rough.

"Okay?" Ryan asks.

"Yeah," Brendon repeats. Then he bites down on Ryan's lower lip, almost hard enough to break skin before he pulls back with a determined expression. "Get on with it already." 

Ryan pulls out before his cock softens and discards the condom on the floor. Brendon makes a disgruntled noise of protest, pushing his hips forward plaintively. Before he can work up any kind of irritation, Ryan ducks his head and swallows Brendon down, flattening his tongue against the underside while he fondles Brendon's balls. It doesn't take more than that for Brendon to come in his mouth, slick and a little sour.

Since fucking Brendon is kind of amazing and Ryan plans on doing it again, preferably soon, he swallows. Brendon makes a rough, choked noise, and a little more liquid floats into Ryan's mouth.

Afterwards, they lie side by side on the mattress. Ryan doesn't notice their arms are touching until Brendon shifts, then sits up to beat the pillow into a comfortable shape before lying back down, glancing sideways at Ryan.

"How's your ass?" Ryan asks, his tone less provocative than he planned.

"Fine," Brendon says. Ryan wonders if that was a backhanded compliment. It's Brendon, though, so it probably wasn't.

One edge of the pillow is close enough for Ryan to use, so he rolls onto his side and settles in for a nap, sweaty and somewhat gross, the covers smeared with dried come in several place. Of course, that's when his phone buzzes with a text message.

Brendon groans. "Can't you just microwave that fucking phone?"

Ryan thinks about saying that it's a device enabling him to keep up with friends, but then, Brendon wouldn't know about that, would he? Ryan bites the inside of his cheek and grapples for the phone, flipping it open. He's uncomfortable aware of Brendon's eyes on his face.

_brnch__jn?__prnts__r__gne,_ Spencer writes. _brng__mlk.__dnt__b__n__asshole._

"What kind of language is that?" Brendon asks. "Is that even English? I thought only twelve-year old bimbos wrote texts like that."

Ryan turns his head, frowning. "What do _you_ care?"

"I don't," Brendon says flatly.

"Well." Ryan sits up, the covers falling down to his waist. It's suddenly cold again. "Whatever. I should go. I kind of fought with – anyway."

"Sure, yeah." Brendon's voice is furious. "Right, yeah, because when precious Spencer calls, you come running."

"_What_?" Ryan asks. His fingers clench around the phone, and he drops it onto the mattress.

"So, considering you just fucked me and seemed pretty into it, I take it Spencer doesn't put out?" Brendon is glaring, his forehead creased, and when Ryan looks down, he notices that Brendon's hands are clenched into fists. It doesn't make _sense_.

"Spencer is straight," Ryan says slowly.

Brendon's head jerks up. "He's what?"

"Straight," Ryan repeats.

"Oh, that explains it, then," Brendon says. "I guess that's pretty frustrating, yeah, having a crush on a straight guy, seriously, how stupid _are_ you? So I guess a fuckbuddy's a good way to let off some steam, then, right? Except for the buddy part, I mean."

Ryan stares at Brendon, and all he can hear is, _I'm__not__cheap_. "Are you _jealous_?" he asks.

The knuckles of Brendon's hands whiten. "Why the fuck would I be jealous?"

"I don't know," Ryan says. "Spencer's like my _brother_, you fucking freak. He's definitely not—I don't have a _crush_ on him."

"Oh." Brendon deflates visibly, but the frown doesn't fall from his face, and _I'm__not__cheap_, Ryan thinks, and _fuckbuddy_.

He clears his throat. "You want to come along?" he asks. "I mean, whatever. It's just brunch at Jon's place, but there's more than enough food, probably, so it's not like it matters if there's one person more. Spencer's waffles are pretty good."

"Why would I want to have brunch at Jon's?" Brendon asks, his tone dismissive. "It's not like I even know the guy, besides knowing he's one of your wonderful friends, so chances are I won't like him."

"Fine," Ryan says, and it's not like he cares, fuck. Brendon can do whatever the fuck he wants, so if he prefers to rot to pieces in his shitty little apartment, then Ryan's not going to stop him. "Stay here, then. You're the one who ate the leftovers from last night, so there's nothing edible anymore, is there?"

Brendon turns away, staring straight at the wall. The display of immaturity is almost enough for Ryan to want to shove him, just for the sake of it. Instead, Ryan scrambles out of bed and gathers his clothes while Brendon sits still and rigid. Ryan's about to pocket his phone when Brendon asks, everything about him screaming reluctance, "Did you say waffles?"

"Yeah," Ryan says, perfectly flat.

Brendon turns his head, just slightly. "Yeah," he says. "Okay."

Ryan huffs out an impatient breath. "We need to buy milk on the way. That too much for you?"

Brendon lifts one shoulder. "There's still some in the fridge, I think."

"Okay," Ryan says. He thinks about texting Spencer a warning that he isn't coming alone, but he can't figure out what to write. It's not important, anyway. 

This was a dumb idea, Brendon thinks, when Ryan pulls his crappy car into Jon's driveway. This was a really, really dumb idea, and he's a fucking _idiot_. He scowls down at the milk in his lap and, when Ryan doesn't move to get out of the car, waits for it.

Ryan doesn't disappoint.

"These are my friends," he says, hesitant under the coldness in his voice. "If you could, like, not be a _complete_asshole, that'd be awesome."

Brendon smiles sunnily at him. "I'll see what I can do," he says, airily, taking his seatbelt off and pushing his hips forward so he can stretch his back. Ryan blinks, gaze unfocused for a minute, and Brendon's grin widens before he opens the door and jumps nimbly out of the car.

"Seriously," Ryan warns when he gets out, and then he's walking up the drive. Brendon hesitates for a moment and then Ryan turns around and looks at him impatiently, until Brendon falls into step beside him (he's not going to walk _behind_him). He wants to fold his arms or something but he's holding the goddamn milk, so he settles for shoving one hand in his pocket and clutching the milk with unnecessary force. Ryan looks at him and raises one eyebrow, and Brendon glares. He fucking _hates_that Ryan thinks he can look down on Brendon.

"Who says brunch, anyway?" Brendon asks conversationally, when they reach the door. "My grandma says brunch. Do you guys have tea parties, too? Do you dress up your Barbie dolls?"

"Your grandma has Barbies?" Ryan asks, and then a foggy shape appears behind the door and Ryan lifts his chin and smiles. It is, Brendon muses with vague delight, possibly the _worst_fake smile Ryan's ever had. And the guy is really, _really_bad at acting.

Spencer opens the door, and stares at Brendon. Brendon tilts his chin up defiantly and stares back and for a moment Spencer just stands there, barely moving, before he turns to Ryan and says, "What the _fuck_?"

"We brought milk," Ryan says, shrugging, and pushes past Spencer. When neither Spencer or Brendon move, he looks carelessly back over his shoulder and asks, "You two coming?"

Brendon shoves the milk gracelessly at Spencer and walks through, restraining himself from knocking his shoulder against Spencer's. He's nearly seventeen years old, he tells himself, firmly. He'll get through this – this stupid _brunch_without incident, and then he'll go home and try to work out how he can play coming along as a direct attack on Ryan. Maybe he'll break a vase on his way out.

Ryan leads them into a kitchen; not really _that_big or even particularly neat, but still about twice the size of Brendon's whole apartment. There's big doors made of glass that all the light floods through, and pots and pans and a big fridge and a couple of cupboards open that are packed with food. Brendon's not an idiot, and he lived in a normal house for nearly sixteen years, but it still catches him off-guard for a moment. He's not used to it; something that's not his empty kitchen, or the dim, poky one that he only saw for a moment before Ryan's hand tightened around his wrist and dragged him past, away from the empty bottles on the table.

Jon looks up from where he's pulling ingredients out and onto a counter. For a moment, his eyes widen, but he doesn't say anything except for, "Morning. You two have a good Christmas?"

Brendon swallows hard. Ryan glances almost nervously at him and then says, "Yeah, you know. Whatever. You?"

"Pretty cool," Jon says, and then he grins and says, "Oh, wait here," and ducks away.

Spencer sighs, looking long-suffering. "Be grateful you've only just got here," he tells Ryan, avoiding looking at Brendon completely. Brendon rolls his eyes and leans back against a wall. "I've been subjected to the Look How Adorable parade all morning."

"What's adorable?" Ryan asks, and then Jon appears in the doorway cradling the tiniest kitten in the _world_ to his chest.

"Clover is!" Jon says, beaming. "Aren't you, honey?" Clover yawns and curls up in Jon's palm, and Ryan's face practically lights up. It's pretty adorable, Brendon will give them that, but Ryan's reaction seems a little extreme, especially when he swoops down and seizes the kitten from Jon before retreating to a chair and ignoring them all in favour of petting it and whispering in its ear.

Brendon blinks at him, and then Jon turns and says, "You like pancakes, Brendon?"

Ryan looks up. "I thought we were having waffles."

Spencer narrows his eyes. "I'm _always_making you waffles, Ross," he says, and he sounds weird. Brendon blinks, and then realizes that Spencer's trying not to laugh. "I am not your bitch."

"My kitchen bitch," Ryan says, and the corner of his mouth is twitching. Brendon tries not to stare. "Come on, Spence, I helped you with your essay the other day—"

"That was in repayment for more waffles!"

"Um," Brendon says quietly, because Jon's flicked an amused glance to him. "I like pancakes."

"I _promised_ him waffles," Ryan says hotly, jerking his head in Brendon's direction. "I said that you made good ones!"

"Oh, well, if you promised _him_," Spencer says, eyes darkening, and Brendon kind of wants to die a little bit. This was _such_a bad idea – he's got no fucking, he can't _do_anything, not here, not in their home.

"Brendon and I are having pancakes," Jon announces, cutting over the two of them. "I'm making lots of batter, but if you two keep being losers, we're going to eat your share, too." He turns to Brendon, and says in an almost bizarre, dignified voice, "Brendon, will you please get the eggs out of the fridge?"

"Uh," Brendon says, "Sure," and does so. Spencer watches him closely, as if Brendon's likely to smash the eggs on the floor in a fit of rage. Brendon tries not to hunch his shoulders.

"Seriously, Spence," Ryan says, sounding more and more childish with the minute. "You're so fucking mean. I wanted _waffles_. Why the fuck do you think I keep you around, anyway?"

"I don't know why you worried about _me_being an asshole to them," Brendon says without thinking, "when clearly that's your default mode." Ryan gapes at him, but Jon bursts out laughing and Spencer smiles a little reluctantly. Brendon puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back and forward awkwardly, thinks, well, at least there's pancakes.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Part**____**6/9**_  
>Continued from <span>here<span>. 

Ryan and Spencer are talking out on the back porch with their heads bent together, bare centimetres apart. Brendon tries not to stare, or look pissed or anything. Ryan_said_Spencer was straight and anyway, Brendon doesn't give a shit. He's not going to go back out there, though; he helped Jon carry in dishes because his mom ingrained certain habits in him that he can't get rid of, and it seemed polite. Jon tells him not to worry about the dishes, they'll do them later, but he casts a look outside and rolls his eyes.

"Guess we'd better wait a minute," he says. "When they're not just communicating via eyebrow it's generally pretty important."

"Communicating via what?" Brendon asks absently, bending over the CD collection. There's a lot. He wonders if these are Jon's and his parents', or whether Jon's got a whole other set back in his room. Brendon wishes he'd had the time to grab more of his own CDs before he moved out.

"Eyebrow," Jon repeats. "It's kind of sad, really. They have whole conversations that I don't even notice." He grins, warm and ridiculously charming, and Brendon keeps his eyes on the CDs, crouching down to look at the lower shelves. It's too weird, he thinks, to have Jon all… all friendly, like he's never glared at Brendon as he leads Ryan away.

"I still don't know what I'm doing with them, really," Jon continues, nice and easy, and Brendon glances up, surprised. Jon smiles at him. "I think they just keep me around for my kittens."

"Plural?" Brendon asks, without meaning to.

"Yeah, Dylan's around somewhere," Jon says. "He's pretty big now, though. It's cool he has a friend."

"Friends are nice," Brendon says, absently. There's a signed copy of Ziggy Stardust. Whoever Jon's parents are, they're seriously cool.

Jon pauses and then says, "So how long have you and Ryan been like…"

Brendon looks up, wary. "You don't really need to say it like that," he says, voice cold. "We're not _dating_. I don't even _like_ him."

"I was just wondering," Jon says, quietly.

Brendon shrugs, turns back and lingers over a copy of London Calling with distracted longing. "Almost two months," he says, and when he looks up Ryan's standing next to him, face unreadable.

Brendon doesn't know just what it is he expects – Ryan laughing at him, probably, for being stupid and weak and too easily affected – but it's certainly not Ryan just_looking_ at him for what feels like forever. Then Ryan's gaze suddenly flicks down. "Good album," he says in his usual monotone, and it takes Brendon a moment to figure out he's talking about London Calling.

"Yeah," Brendon says. He's uncomfortably aware of Jon watching from the sidelines. "I've been meaning to get that, but can't find a cheap copy." Wow, way to draw attention to how much of a loser he is, great. He puts the CD down a little defiantly. "Not that I want it that much, anyway," he adds. "I heard it so much, I'm kind of sick of it, actually."

When he looks back up at Ryan, Ryan quickly looks away. From over Ryan's shoulder, Spencer is watching sharply, his blue eyes too interested for Brendon's liking. He manages to hold Spencer's gaze for only four seconds, maybe five, before he averts his eyes.

Fucking… Ryan Ross and his stupid fucking precious friends.

"Let's go," Ryan says suddenly. Brendon is scrambling to his feet before he realizes how potentially embarrassing that is, just jumping when Ryan tells him to, but Ryan is already walking towards the front door and didn't even notice.

Spencer makes a low, considering noise. Brendon ignores him, squares his shoulders and follows Ryan to the car. At least the pancakes were good. 

Ryan supposes that all things considered, it could have been more of a disaster. There was a certain chance of Brendon picking a fight with Spencer, or being an ass even in the face of Jon's niceness, just for the sake of it. So, yeah. It wasn't so bad.

Ryan turns his face into the cool breeze and closes his eyes, just briefly. Beside him, Brendon is kicking some gravel along the path. "You want to drive us back?" Ryan asks without glancing over.

"Really?" Brendon stops walking. Ryan pretends not to notice, just keeps moving towards the car until he hears Brendon's quick footsteps behind him, catching up. When he holds out his keys, Brendon accepts them, fingertips brushing Ryan's palm. It's the kind of thing Ryan doesn't think he should notice.

He climbs into the passenger seat while Brendon fiddles with the seat position and the mirrors, leaning back. He doesn't really let people drive his car; it's old and temperamental, and Brendon's the last person who will treat it the way it should be treated. Ryan has no idea why he even offered.

Once Brendon puts the car into motion, it takes Ryan approximately five seconds to deeply, genuinely regret his decision. "Jesus Christ," he hisses, one hand on the dashboard. "There's such a thing as _too__much__gas_, did you know?"

Brendon turns his head for a broad grin, and Ryan's stomach is churning. With dread, he's sure.

"Keep your eyes on the road," he says, voice sharp. "For fuck's sake, who taught you to drive?"

"What makes you think I didn't just learn this from The Fast and the Furious?" Brendon is looking at the road now, but Ryan can see his grin widen in profile. For just a moment, Ryan almost falls for it. Then he remembers running into Brendon once, outside the driving school, back when Brendon was still wearing stupid shirts proclaiming the greatness of God and whatnot.

"You took class," Ryan says.

Brendon snickers, seeming unnaturally happy, almost carefree. "And what makes you think I passed them?" He takes a sharp turn, and Ryan isn't entirely sure he bothered to look into the mirror. Ryan clenches his jaw.

"At this point, I'm really just praying I'll get out of here alive."

Brendon's reply consists of a snort. They're both quiet for a while before Brendon says, while they're waiting at a red light, "I did pass, you know?"

Ryan squints up at the streetlight. "So it's not just The Fast and The Furious, then?"

"Nah." Brendon shakes his head and shifts in the seat. "They do have some cool moves, though."

"Yeah." There's another moment of silence. The light switches to green and the car shudders back into motion just as Ryan adds, "Did you know there's a new one coming out next week? The third, I think. The trailer looks kind of bad."

"Tokyo Drift?" Brendon nods vaguely. "Yeah, I don't know. Might be fun, though."

"Yeah," Ryan says. "Might be." He waits, but Brendon doesn't say anything else, and after a moment he looks out the window and zones out.

He's surprised when they pull up at Brendon's building, unclenching his fingers from where he was clutching the seat. He ignores Brendon's amused look.

"Got us here alive, didn't I?" Brendon asks.

Frowning, Ryan grabs the keys from his hand and locks the car. "I'm not letting you drive again," he says. "Ever."

Brendon laughs, and suddenly he has Ryan backed against the car, out here where everyone can see. Ryan swallows and raises his chin. With another, quieter laugh, Brendon shuffles another few inches closer, cups the back of Ryan's head and pulls him into a kiss. Ryan thinks about pretending to resist, but somehow, he just can't be bothered.

He thinks he should go home soon.

Instead, he slides his tongue into Brendon's mouth and wraps one arm around Brendon's waist to tug him forward so that they're pressed stomach to stomach, leg to leg. Ryan feels Brendon's chest expand on a deep breath, and… he really doesn't want to go home. 

Brendon unlocks the door to his apartment, his dick pressing uncomfortably against the fly of his jeans. Stupid idea, to start this sort of thing outside. Brendon pushes inside, and Ryan follows somewhat hesitantly.

When Brendon turns to give him an impatient look, Ryan is standing near the front door, glancing around the room. "I should probably go home," he says.

Brendon's throat doesn't tighten. He nods and his voice is even, careless. "Yeah, whatever. This place is too small for people anyway, and it's not like you're paying rent."

Quickly, Ryan's gaze finds his before it skitters away again. "Yeah," Ryan echoes. "And, I mean. I don't have clean clothes anymore, so."

_There's__a__Laundromat__around__the__corner_, Brendon wants to say. He doesn't. Just nods and leans back against the wall as he watches Ryan gather up his things from the floor. There's a used condom next to the bed, knotted, and Brendon can't wait to throw it away and air out the apartment.

Ryan hesitates at the door, so briefly that Brendon wouldn't have noticed if he weren't watching closely. "What?" he asks flatly. "You want a kiss goodbye?"

"No." Ryan shakes his head, and then he pulls the door open, slips outside and is gone.

Usually, Brendon's apartment is too small, barely enough room to fit even the few things he managed to take with him. It still feels strangely empty when he crosses over to the kitchen. Kara's plant greets him with reproachfully yellow leaves. 

Ryan drives home and says hi to his dad, who doesn't ask where he's been. He showers and stands for a long time under the hot spray, head tilted back, eyes closed, before he reaches for the soap, and even then – although it's gross – he only gives it a cursory swipe over his skin before he puts it aside.

He dresses in fresh clothes that only smell of laundry detergent and reads half of the book he needs to finish for English, and then he goes back downstairs and heats up some frozen lasagne and reads the rest of it. After dinner, he goes back to his room and attempts to start his essay, and then goes online and surfs around aimlessly for a while. A few people talk to him on AIM, but most of them are only a few lines of conversation before the pauses get longer and longer, and after a while, when it becomes clear that neither Spencer nor Jon are coming on, Ryan logs off.

His dad is banging around downstairs; Ryan guesses he's drunk again, going by the low, jumbled blur of curses when something smashes. He flips his phone open, and then shut. It's half past eight; he's been home for seven hours and fifteen minutes. He doesn't know what Brendon's number is. He doesn't know a lot of things.

Ryan gets up and pulls his backpack out from under his bed, empties the schoolbooks he hasn't taken out yet onto his desk. He shoves in three changes of clothes, and seven pairs of underpants, and he thinks he remembers seeing a Laundromat, so he digs up a handful of quarters from his desk drawer, too. The bag isn't full, so Ryan adds a few movies and then he goes downstairs and puts in two packets of popcorn that you put in the oven, a half-full tub of vanilla ice cream, and a loaf of bread.

Ryan calls out to his dad, "I'm going to Spencer's!" and doesn't wait for a response. He walks out of the house. He drives.

When he opens the unlocked door, Brendon smiles. 

"Seriously," Brendon says, a little smugly, when they're both lying boneless and half-naked on his mattress. "Were you even _gone_twelve hours?"

"I bought food," Ryan says. He'd snap it, but he's a little smug himself at the moment. "So shut the fuck up."

"I'm not a whore," Brendon says, but almost lazily, not with the same dark unhappiness in his eyes as he used to be. Ryan thinks _I'm__not__cheap_, and then yawns and stretches sluggishly, arching his back a little, conscious of Brendon's gaze on him.

For a moment, they're quiet, and then Brendon huffs a laugh. "Alright," he says. "What food'd you bring?"

"Popcorn," Ryan says, "and movies," and he smiles into the mattress at Brendon's expression.

It's a quiet kind of night, to Ryan's surprise. They don't touch while they watch the movie, but halfway through the second one, Brendon apparently gets bored of the story and rolls half on top of Ryan in order to kiss him. It's a little weird, making out while Brad Pitt shoots things in the background, and though he's hard, Brendon doesn't really push to do anything more. Ryan pushes Brendon's hair back from where it's tickling his face, and then for some reason it seems easy to let it stay there, smoothing his hair back behind his ear again and again, letting his nails drag just slightly over Brendon's skin. Brendon pushes back into the touch, and for a moment the kissing turns kind of shitty while they both grin.

At half past two in the morning, they eat the ice cream out of the tub with spoons. Brendon looks tired; he says, "I have to work tomorrow, fuck," and Ryan shrugs, wondering aloud who gives a shit. Brendon summons the energy to give him a dark glare, but Ryan can see what it's lacking, and he leans forward, licks the vanilla out of Brendon's mouth. 

The next morning, Brendon shakes him awake at nine and Ryan struggles into a sitting position with some difficulty. There's dried toothpaste on the corner of Brendon's mouth, and his hair is wet from a shower. He's wearing his gross Smoothie Hut uniform, and Ryan gives in to his first instinct and laughs groggily, says, "You look _ridiculous_."

Brendon scowls. "Get the fuck up," he snarls. "I have to go, I'm not leaving you here alone."

"Like you have anything worth stealing," Ryan scoffs, but he stands up anyway, and pulls on a pair of jeans. He's damned if he's going to lie around half-naked while Brendon's fully dressed. He rubs his hands across his face and says, "What time does your shift start?"

"Not till eleven," Brendon says, and Ryan gapes at him, drawing himself up, ready to throw a small tantrum. "But," Brendon continues, almost warily, "I need to go and buy some new shoes. Mine are almost worn through."

Ryan glances down; Brendon's wearing black lace up leather shoes, and they do look scuffed and worn out. The only other ones Ryan's seen him wearing are the battered Converse he wears at school, and he feels that faint, uncomfortable prickle at the base of his spine, the one that always gets there if he thinks too long about Brendon's circumstances.

"Okay," he says, and then he swallows his pride the way Brendon did a moment ago and asks, "Can I come with?"

Brendon looks at him impassively. "Yeah," he says, and they go.

Ryan drives them into the city, a few blocks away from where Brendon works, and they head into the basement of one of the big department stores, because Brendon says there's a sale on or something. For a while, they had walked in almost companionable silence, but then Brendon had pointed out a girl in a ruffled pink party dress and said, "Dude, aren't you gonna go get pissed at her for stealing your outfit?" and off they'd gone.

"Shut the fuck up," Ryan hisses. "Seriously, you're so fucking immature, I can't believe you—"

"Oh, coming from the guy who chucked a fit over not getting waffles," Brendon says, sneering, and Ryan folds his arms and glares. Seriously, just when he's starting to – no, whatever, he never likes Brendon.

"I'm sorry," Ryan says, "Do you even remember what waffles _taste_like?"

It's not a very good response, and when Brendon goes white and stops still in his tracks, Ryan worries for a split second that maybe it was too close to the bone anyway, maybe Brendon doesn't cope with that shit as easily as he makes it look – and then Ryan looks up, and there's a man standing a few paces away from them, staring.

Brendon shifts just slightly, and it takes a few seconds for Ryan to connect that with the fierce bite of pain around his wrists; he looks down, and Brendon's holding on tightly, fingernails digging into Ryan's skin.

The man clears his throat and steps forward, slowly, and there's something so stupidly familiar about him, even his voice, when he says, "Hello, Brendon."

Ryan has spent the past four years of his life learning exactly how to affect Brendon Urie; the first time they fought, when they were freshmen, Ryan slammed his fist hard enough into Brendon's nose that he cried, red-cheeked and as angry as he was hurt, clutching onto his nose. Ryan has punched Brendon and bit him and kicked him in the balls; he has sucked him off and kissed him and fucked him, and he has never made Brendon's voice sound like it does at this moment.

"Hi, Dad," Brendon says.

Ryan glances at him; he looks exhausted, wrecked, and Ryan can't help shifting his hand around, twisting until Brendon's grip loosens enough, and Ryan slips his hand up and threads their fingers together. It's silly of him, he knows, Brendon will use this against him, they're not even, even, _whatever_, but he knows this only beneath the frantic, furious buzzing that seems to be taking up most of his head, and it does not seem to matter so much.

In front of them, Brendon's dad only looks uncomfortable. He clears his throat, and his gaze flicks down to their joined hands; Brendon doesn't seem to notice, but Ryan tilts his chin up, lips twisting into a harsh line. Something ugly and fierce stirs inside him – nobody, he thinks, nobody gets to look at Brendon with such casualness, not even_Ryan_looks at him like that, and Brendon doesn't live with his parents, hasn't since the beginning of the year, and not once, not once did Ryan properly think about it enough to realize that it means Brendon hasn't _seen_his parents since the beginning of the year.

"How – how was your Christmas?" Brendon stammers after a moment, and Ryan wants to tighten his grip on Brendon, tug him away. _You're__going__to__miss__your__shift_, he could say, or, _we__need__to__buy__those__shoes_, or, _I__don't__want__you__to__look__like__that,__I'm__sorry,__I__know__this__isn't__what__we're__about__but__I__can't__stand__you__looking__like__that_.

"Very nice, thank you," Brendon's father answers. "James and his wife came down to stay. They're about to have a baby."

Brendon looks stricken. "Oh," he says. "Oh, I would have liked to." He stops, and Brendon's dad looks sympathetic for the first time. It's not enough for Ryan.

"Brendon," his father says, gently, "you know all you have to do to—"

"I can't," Brendon says and he sounds so raw, miserable. He stares at his dad as if he can't get enough, eyes huge and hungry. "I can't, Dad, you know I—"

"I don't know anything, Brendon," his dad says, carefully, and he glances at Ryan and Brendon's hands again. "Except that this little fit of rebellion has certainly – well." He stops, awkward. "How was your Christmas, anyhow?"

Brendon swallows hard. "Lonely," he says, eventually, and Ryan ducks his head. Brendon's dad bites his lip, and Ryan thinks, _stop__trying__to__fucking__avoid__confrontation__and__just__ – __he__needs_– and then that ugly feeling is back, because Ryan thinks _no,__no,__I__don't__want__him__to__need__you_.

"I'm sorry to hear that," his dad says, and Brendon nods quickly, head bobbing up and down.

"I have to," he says. "I mean, I uh, I have work. My – Ryan's giving me a lift," he adds, jerking his head quickly towards Ryan, and Brendon's dad smiles a little.

"Nice to meet you, Ryan," he says. Ryan meets his gaze and stares, hard and cold, and Brendon's dad looks pissed off, like a parent dealing with an unruly child. Ryan wants to smash him in the fucking face.

"Let's just go," Brendon mumbles, talking to him for the first time. "Let's just, Ryan, can we go?"

"Yeah," Ryan says, "yeah."

"It was – say hi to everyone?" Brendon asks, turning back to his father. "Please? Tell them I like. Love them. And you."

"I'll tell them," his dad says. Brendon nods, and then turns and Ryan tightens his grip, and practically pulls him out of there, walking fast across the floor to the escalators, keeping an eye out for public bathrooms or something, anything he can drag Brendon into, make him be okay again the only way Ryan knows how.

He settles for the empty fitting rooms, pushing Brendon into a cubicle and following behind him. Brendon looks at him wide-eyed, and Ryan says, roughly, "Hey, _hey_," and kisses him almost softly, sucking Brendon's bottom lip into his mouth, trying to remember how Brendon did it that day at Ryan's house, when Ryan was tired and upset about his dad, and Brendon knew how to touch him.

But Brendon pulls away. He says, "I don't," and then stops, swallows, tries again. "Can we just, I should go to work. Please."

He has never said please, not to Ryan, not once, not when he kissed him or fucked Ryan's ass or his mouth, and now that he is, Ryan hates it.

"Yes," he says. 

Brendon isn't quite sure how he's going to make it through his shift. He gets there right on time, Ryan silent in the driver's seat, looking straight ahead. His knuckles are white around the wheel, and Brendon glances away and pushes the door open. "Bye," he mutters.

Ryan asks, "What time d'you get off?"

Brendon turns his head, just enough to make out Ryan's profile. His face is unreadable, and Brendon remembers, just for a moment, how he looked in the dim light of the changing cubicle, helpless and intent, more than Brendon could handle. Too much, too much.

"Six," he says quietly, and then he walks towards the back entrance and doesn't glance over when he hears Ryan pull away from the curb. Ryan's bag is still in Brendon's apartment. Ryan's bag is still there, and so is Kara's plant, only that Brendon hasn't seen Kara in months, doesn't know when he'll see—_Fuck_.

He kicks one of the trashcans beside the entrance and slips through the door. 

His shift passes in a daze. Brendon is fairly certain he gives all the right answers, blends the right fruit, smiles at the customers and even talks to Haley about something for a while, but it's all distant, like it's someone else going through the motions. He feels dizzy.

When the next guy comes in to take over from Brendon, Brendon's surprised to realize that it's dark outside. He hands over his apron and nods a faint goodbye. Something hurts when he moves, but he thinks it's only his too-tight throat.

Ryan's car is parked right beside the alley.

Brendon halts his steps for a second as the white rush behind his forehead intensifies. Then he blinks, and his vision clears slightly, objects less frayed around the edges. Ryan is leaning against the side of the car, head tipped back to study the sky while a cigarette dangles loosely from his fingers. Brendon inhales deeply.

He takes a step forward, out of the alleys shadows. "You know that smoking's shit for your body, right?"

Ryan startles, almost dropping the cigarette before he gives Brendon an unimpressed look. "Didn't know you cared."

"I don't," Brendon says. He approaches, leaning against the car beside Ryan, their shoulders almost close enough to touch. Brendon snatches the cigarette from Ryan's unresisting hand. The first drag is bitter and sharp, definitely nothing Brendon wants to get used to, but the tickling sensation in his throat eases his breathing. He coughs a little before handing the cigarette back to Ryan.

"Pussy," Ryan comments, but his tone is mild, almost nonchalant, so Brendon doesn't bother to reply.

"You're here to pick me up from work?" he asks instead, turning his head for a fake smile, his tone mocking. "Wow, that's _so_ sweet of you. You'd make _such_ a good boyfriend, really."

_Boyfriend_. The word catches in Brendon's brain, makes him remember the derogatory curl of his father's mouth at the sight of his son holding hands with another boy. Brendon clenches one hand in his stupid work shirt and sets his jaw. So what if his father thinks he's dating Ryan, so what? It's not as if it makes a difference.

Beside him, Ryan snorts. "Because you have so much experience with them?"

"Fuck off," Brendon says curtly, glancing at the sharp jut of Ryan's hipbones, visible even beneath Ryan's t-shirt. It's easy to focus on Ryan. Easier.

"Wow, that was witty," Ryan drawls. He shifts, and maybe it's intentional because it draws attention to the flatness of his stomach.

"You're not worth the energy," Brendon says, somewhat weakly.

Ryan snorts out another laugh. When Brendon looks over, he finds Ryan studying him for a moment, eyes dark, and Brendon fights the urge to lean in and kiss him. Then he doesn't know why he bothers; Ryan has no ground to call him weak, not anymore, not when Ryan's the one who spends more time at Brendon's apartment than in his own room.

Before Brendon can make a move, though, Ryan flicks the cigarette butt away. It lands on the pavement, glowing orange for a moment before it extinguishes. "I thought we could drive out into the desert," Ryan says. It sounds as if he's about to add something else, but when two seconds pass, then three, Brendon shrugs. He's tired, his whole body sagging with it.

"Okay," he says. Ryan's smile flickers for a moment, and then it's gone. When he pushes away from the car to walk over to the driver's door, Brendon shivers briefly at the loss of warmth by his side. 

They don't speak during the drive. Ryan looks like he knows where they're going, and Brendon doesn't have the energy to ask. Funny how two months ago, he never would have considered getting into a car with Ryan.

It doesn't seem funny, somehow.

When Ryan pulls off the main road onto a small sand path, Brendon sits up in his seat. The headlights of the car paint the ground in a surreal white, leaves and branches reaching for them as the car hobbles over potholes.

"It's a dead end street." Ryan's voice is low in the darkness. "Used to lead to a barn, but it burned down, I think. Sometimes, I come here when my dad—when I don't feel like going home."

Brendon doesn't reply. He wouldn't know what to say anyway, because everything he could say would make him recall his father's shuttered face, the distance in his eyes. The branches knock against the sides of the car.

"It's nothing special," Ryan adds, after a moment. "Just, like, it's a good place to get away, you know? Better in the summer, though."

_Why__are__you__doing__this?_ Brendon wants to ask. He doesn't, though. He doesn't want to hear about how Ryan's sorry Brendon is living such a shitty life. He's just fine without pity, thanks.

The car pulls to an abrupt halt, and Ryan must have been here a number of times because Brendon probably would have missed the low stone wall that suddenly cuts the path off. It's only about a foot high, leading up to a patch of grass, only the blackened remains of a building rising from the ground. Ryan switches off the lights, and suddenly, it's dark and silent around them. A cricket chirps somewhere in the distance.

"Hey," Ryan whispers, turning his head.

Brendon swallows and blinks. "Hey," he replies, voice catching in his throat somehow. He doesn't want to think about all the reasons for that, so he leans over the separation and drags Ryan into a kiss.

It's uncomfortable with the gearstick pressing into his stomach, but Ryan tastes of smoke and chewing gum, and that's better, so much better than the sour taste Brendon's had in his mouth for most of the day. When Brendon pulls Ryan closer, Ryan comes easily, almost as if he's handing control to Brendon for the moment, only that doesn't make sense. Brendon squeezes his eyes shut so tightly he sees bright sparks behind his lids. He shudders when Ryan's tongue tickles the roof of his mouth.

"Backseat," Ryan suggests, after what might have been minutes or hours because Brendon lost all sense of time.

"Yeah," he mumbles, "okay," but Ryan is right there, so Brendon tilts his head to suck Ryan's bottom lip into his mouth, twining one hand in Ryan's hair and stroking over the short curls at the base of Ryan's skull.

"Backseat," Ryan repeats, but he sounds less determined now.

Brendon pulls back, just a few inches, and watches Ryan's eyes flutter open slowly. He looks confused for a moment, eyes wide and black in the dark interior of the car. With a smile, Brendon scrambles over the seat into the back of the car, and he doesn't feel tired anymore, he feels awake and focused, warm even though the heater of Ryan's car is broken and he's been shivering since this morning.

Ryan is wearing only a t-shirt over his jeans, so when he squeezes through the gap between the driver and the passenger seat, Brendon uses the opportunity to get his hands on warm skin. Under his palm, he feels Ryan's spine shift as Ryan dips his head to kiss him again.

"Scoot back," Ryan says, lips moving against Brendon's jaw. One of Ryan's hands slips between Brendon's thighs to part them, make room for Ryan's body.

Brendon thinks he should protest – after all, he's not some girl Ryan can fuck in the backseat of his car. Then Ryan undoes the zipper of Brendon's jeans, one-handed, and cups Brendon's half-hard dick through a layer of underwear, and right, right, it's quite unlikely Ryan's mistaking him for a girl. Brendon sinks back against the door and spreads his legs, pushing his hips forward, just a little. The metal is cold against the back of his neck, where the sweater ends. "You got stuff?" he asks.

"Yeah." Ryan twists his hand at the wrist, forcing a faint gasp from Brendon. He flicks his gaze down to find Ryan's fingers startlingly bright against the dark cotton of the boxers, and Brendon remembers gripping Ryan's wrist too-tightly this morning, remembers the expression in his father's eyes and how his father's assumption wasn't even too far off the mark.

"_Good_," Brendon manages, and he's surprised at the determination in his own voice. Ryan stills for a blink of an eye, tilting his head as if for a question. When Brendon jerks up against Ryan's palm, Ryan exhales on a long breath and leans down, settling between Brendon's thighs and pushing him further against the door. Brendon drapes one leg over the backrest.

Ryan hits his head on the ceiling while trying to grab his wallet from the driver seat, and Brendon stifles a laugh. "It's not funny," Ryan says evenly. He curls his fingers around Brendon's erection, and oh, fuck, that's not _fair_.

"You're a fucking _cheater_," Brendon replies, slightly belated.

"Well," Ryan says. "_You_ bite."

"And _you_ scratch like a girl," Brendon returns. "_And_ pull hair."

Ryan's thumb swirls around the head of Brendon's cock, and Jesus Christ, that's really fucking unfair. Brendon doesn't quite manage to still his hips. The grin Ryan gives him is triumphant. "Yeah," he says, "but I'm not the one currently laid out on the backseat of my car, begging to be fucked."

"I'm not begging, dickface," Brendon tells him. He's not, and Ryan's an asshole for suggesting it. Not that this is news.

Ryan's grin doesn't waver, a flash of brightness in the dark. "I could make you."

"Oh, really," Brendon says, as evenly as he manages with Ryan fondling his cock.

Ryan leans forward, their mouths almost brushing. "Yes, really."

Brendon whines and arches up, sick of, of fucking _playing_. He's always on guard, he can never – he's sick of constantly thinking and making sure to present the best face to the world, the one people should see, and he's pretty sure that slipped irrevocably this morning with his dad (fuck, why did Ryan have to be there – and, and, thank _God_he was). Ryan makes a surprised kind of noise but takes advantage of Brendon pressing his hips up higher to let go of his cock and drag his jeans down, past his knees; Brendon squirms, kicking them off as best he can, and while he's doing that, Ryan gets his fingers slicked and slides one into him with almost no warning, and yeah, this is good, this is what Brendon needs.

"—why?" Ryan asks, and Brendon hadn't even realized he was talking. He swallows hard and pushes himself down, cups a hand around the back of Ryan's neck to pull him down. He means to kiss him, he does, but instead they end up with their foreheads pressed together, Brendon panting wetly against Ryan's cheek.

"Why _what_," he manages to gasp out, and Ryan looks a little bit breathless himself, eyes dark, twisting his finger in Brendon, deep in to the knuckle. Brendon bites down on a moan, closing his eyes, arching up again; he can't stop moving, something itchy and awful squirming its way out from his skin, and he's kind of grateful for Ryan's weight over him, even though Ryan must be uncomfortable, stretching his hand down like that.

"They – you moved out," Ryan repeats. "Is it because they found out you were gay?"

Brendon grins up at him, baring his teeth. "Who says I'm gay?" he asks, and then groans when Ryan finds the right spot, twisting his finger just _right_. Ryan laughs, this weird little huff of amusement, and he's looking down at Brendon in this surprised way, eyes bright in the dim light. Brendon groans and pushes up again, pressing his cock against Ryan, and says, "Okay, okay, do it—"

Ryan looks startled. "I haven't," he says, and flushes, and Brendon will have to remember that, at some stage, that talking about the mechanics of sex makes Ryan blush, but he can't quite think of anything to say about it right now. "I mean, it's only one finger."

"Doesn't matter," Brendon says, and means it, every part of him desperate and wanting and he needs Ryan to fuck him, now, needs him inside, needs something to shut up his stupid, racing mind. "Just, come on, come on, now, fuck me," and Ryan lets out a startled kind of gasp, mouth red and open, and then he pulls his finger out and pushes his jeans down and slides a condom on, faster than Brendon would have thought possible for him, only he doesn't want to think about that now, not when Ryan is urging his hips up and pushing his legs further apart and then pressing his cock against Brendon's ass and oh _God_, yes, this is what Brendon needed.

It hurts a lot, more than the first time, even, and Brendon flings one arm out into open space and curls the other one up around Ryan's neck for a moment, and then down, clenching in the fabric of his collar. Ryan's wearing a stupid yellow shirt with a v-neck that Brendon's pretty sure he's seen in the ladies department, but right now it feels warm with Ryan's body heat and soft under his fingers. He tugs on it and squirms back on Ryan's cock, and then he shifts around until he can wrap his legs around Ryan's waist and that's better, it hurts less, and Ryan tilts his head down and moans, "God, you're so—"

"Ryan," Brendon says, and it comes out garbled and stupid, "Ryan, Ryan," and he doesn't think he's ever said Ryan's name properly like this before, not so raw and Brendon knows even as he says it that he sounds too fucking obvious. But he also thinks that maybe Ryan Ross being an asshole is not so much the worst thing that could happen to him, not when his dad looks at him like Brendon's a pitied stranger, and Ryan's name spills out of his mouth over and over again, and fills Brendon's head until it's the only thing there, and things are okay, for a little while.

He's surprised when he comes first; it had been painful, more so than usual, and his thoughts had been racing so much that he'd barely noticed when Ryan first got a hand on his cock, stupid as that sounds. Still, he comes before Ryan, tightening around Ryan's cock, and he surprises himself again by saying, "No, no," and hauling Ryan forcibly back down to him when he goes to pull out.

When Ryan comes, he presses his face against Brendon's shoulder and Brendon touches his hair, without thinking, combing his fingers through the soft curls starting at Ryan's neck. He needs a haircut, Brendon thinks, and then Ryan sits up and pulls out and Brendon winces and scrambles back into his boxers.

The neck of Ryan's shirt, Brendon notices, is all stretched out, hanging loose and awkward, baring Ryan's collarbones more than usual. Brendon swallows hard, and ducks his head, a little embarrassed now.

"Hey," Ryan says, and touches Brendon's hair, the side of his face, his neck, almost awkwardly, hand rough and almost patting. It takes all of Brendon's willpower not to lean into it; Ryan's sitting close, but after being fucked it feels like a long way away, especially since they've both struggled back into their jeans. "Hey, you okay?"

Brendon looks up, eyes dark and angry. "Why wouldn't I be?" he asks coldly, and Ryan flinches. Brendon thinks it's unfair, how quickly Ryan changes, how easily he goes from the cocksure asshole waiting outside Brendon's work to this, someone shadowed and incomprehensible, someone with bruises darkening around his wrist where Brendon hung on.

"Your," Ryan says, too soft to be heard, and he swallows hard and tries again. "Because like, your dad and—"

"And _what_?" Brendon snarls.

"And I'd be sad," Ryan says, in a quiet rush. "That's all."

Brendon blinks at him; Ryan is staring fixedly past Brendon's ear, out the window. Brendon thinks, hey, at least I don't have a motherfucking _alcoholic_as a guardian, but doesn't end up saying it. Instead he says Ryan's name again, small, and Ryan looks at him and Brendon folds towards him. It still doesn't feel very close at all, really, and a hated fuckbuddy is not any kind of substitution for family, but Ryan's arms are tight around his shoulders and they sit there in the dark for a long time. 

In between two afternoon shifts at the vintage store and a shopping trip with Spencer and Jon that runs straight into their regular Friday movie night, in between going home to change clothes and never finding his dad there, just before he leaves for another night at Brendon's place, in between friends and work and sex and Brendon, it feels like Ryan blinks and suddenly it's New Year's Eve.

A friend of Jon's is throwing a party while his parents are on vacation, a house filled with drunk, stumbling teenagers. A few girls on the makeshift dance floor are exaggeratedly moving their hips, pretending not to be aware of the leering guys on the edges, too cool to dance, but not too cool to lean their shoulders back against the wall and throw covert glances at low necklines. It's the kind of cliché high school movie situation that makes Ryan cite his gag reflex. He finally leaves the smoke-hazy room to catch a breath of fresh air, outside on the terrace.

He has no idea where Spencer and Jon are – although Jon's probably off somewhere with Cassie – but when Ryan digs out his cell phone, the display shows him it's shortly after ten. The thought of another two hours of this bright, superficial cheerfulness is almost unbearable.

Brendon's probably alone in his apartment, watching movies on his half-broken laptop.

Ryan tips his face up at the dark sky, the city lights too bright to reveal more than the brightest stars. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, slowly, and then he selects the text message menu and sends a quick _leaving_ to Spencer. He turns it off so he won't have to read Spencer's reply.

It's more a relief than anything else to close the garden gate behind himself. The drive over to Brendon's place isn't a long one, only five minutes, three stoplights and a few drunks ambling over the street without paying the traffic any mind. When he pulls up near the building, he turns the engine off and sits in the cooling car for another two minutes, head tipped back against the seat. The silence feels almost physical, and even the raucous laughter drifting out of one open window can't dispel it. It takes Ryan a moment to realize that Brendon's apartment isn't really dark; there's a dim flicker of unsteady light.

Ryan's breath stutters and stumbles in his throat, and he has to swallow once, deliberately, for things to go back to normal. 

Brendon thought the familiarity of Singin' In The Rain would lull him into a comfortable state of sleepiness. Instead, it only makes him feel lonely.

Going through the transition of the old into the new year alone shouldn't bother him. It was his own decision to be honest about what he could and couldn't believe in, his choice, and even if it makes his own father look at him like he's a stranger worth nothing but pity, it was still his choice.

He tries to hum along with the music, but his voice sounds choked.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Ryan were here. It's just… Ryan's _warm_, at least, even if it's just a physical thing. Brendon shakes his head and dismisses the thought. Ryan's at some stupid party thing with his stupid friends, and while he looked almost guilty when he mentioned it this morning, Brendon changed the topic before Ryan could ask him along. He wouldn't fuck Ryan either (let Ryan fuck him), if he thought it was about pity.

On the screen, Gene Kelly sings about his lucky star, and Brendon's about to slam the top closed. He almost misses the quiet knock on the door. It was there, though. He did hear someone knock. He's not expecting company, though, no one's around, not even the guy next door with his noisy TV.

Another knock.

Slowly, Brendon unfolds from the mattress, shaking the covers off. He tells himself it's an axe murderer, or Jehovah's Witnesses, certainly not anyone who matters. It's hard to convince his happy-beating heart of that, though.

He opens the door while Gene Kelly is still singing, joined by Debbie Reynolds, and Ryan is standing there with his hands in his pockets and his face blank. The gratitude surging through Brendon is frightening, so he keeps one hand on the door, blocking the way, and says, "You smell like cold cigarettes. It's disgusting."

Ryan lifts one shoulder, glancing at Brendon, then at the half-open laptop quaking about lucky stars and poor mortals. "Lots of smokers at the party, kind of boring."

"So that's why you're here?" Brendon asks, and still he doesn't move.

"Yeah," Ryan says, then shakes his head. "No."

"No?" Brendon repeats, questioning, and he can't quite hide the lost note in his voice. The next thing he knows, Ryan's pulling him close, and Brendon lets go of the door so he can clutch at Ryan's shoulder, steady himself while he somehow drags Ryan into the apartment, the door falling shut behind them.

They barely make it to the bed before they're grinding against each other, Ryan's t-shirt hanging off one arm and Brendon's jeans shoved down to his knees. Brendon closes his eyes and arches his back and feels warm for the first time that day. 

"Singin' In The Rain is lame."

"Shut up." Brendon can't even work up the energy to turn his head and glare at Ryan.

"No, seriously. It's _so_ lame." Ryan props himself up on his elbows, stretching out on the mattress while he reaches for the laptop. "Don't you have any decent stuff on that? Like… I don't know."

When Brendon finally does manage to roll over, Ryan is frowning at a list of folders, his profile sharply outlined by the light from the screen. Brendon inexplicably short of breath, even if it's just for a moment. "I have all of eleven movies on there, Ross," he says. "Most of my stuff was on DVDs, and I didn't have a chance to pack much when I left."

Ryan's gaze skitters over to him, then away just as quickly. "Well, you need more. This is just _sad_." He pauses. When he speaks again, Brendon thinks there's a trace of delight to Ryan's low voice. "Shaun Of The Dead! It's at the movie theater now, right? We should go see that."

"It's a quarter to midnight." Brendon is careful to keep his eyes on the screen.

"Oh." Ryan appears to hesitate, then he snaps the laptop shut and sits up, every motion sharp, and Brendon suddenly wonders if Ryan will grow out of that, if he'll turn out graceful and lovely with his dark hair and honey-brown eyes, or if he'll stay an awkward, uncertain teenager forever. Either way, Brendon won't be around long enough to tell.

"Is there a roof terrace or something?" Ryan asks into Brendon's thoughts.

Brendon gives him a pointed look. "Does this building _look_ like it has a roof terrace?"

Ryan glares back. "Whatever, you know what I mean. A roof? A trapdoor so we can climb out? Something?"

"I don't know," Brendon says.

"_You're_ the one who lives here."

"Fuck off." Brendon turns his back to Ryan to grab his boxers from the floor, slipping into his t-shirt while he adds, "Besides, I'm happy if I get six hours of sleep. We don't all get a healthy allowance, asshole."

"I only get that if my dad doesn't drink it away," Ryan shoots back. He sounds tight and unhappy, not as loose as when he went through Brendon's movie collection, and it's ten minutes to midnight and Brendon suddenly feels exhausted.

"Sorry," he mutters.

He can sense Ryan stiffen without even turning around. A moment of silence passes, then Ryan clears his throat. "Yeah, whatever. Let's check the roof, or we'll miss the show."

Brendon nods and doesn't trust himself to reply.

They both slip back into their clothes quickly, Brendon digging up his battered sneakers from under a pile of laundry that also contains a t-shirt and two boxers that belong to Ryan. Then they leave the apartment, Brendon locking the door even though it's more of a gesture considering the wood is about to fall apart anyway.

The elevator doesn't work so they climb the stairs, their footsteps creaking and echoing in the deserted stairway. On the highest floor, they find two doors, one of them locked with a door plate, the other ajar. When they push it open, the dust swirling through the air nearly makes Brendon choke. Next to him, Ryan holds up a hand to cover his mouth, coughing a little, but he takes a step into the dark room anyway.

It's drafty, smelling of rotting wood and dusty isolation material, but there are two tiny windows showing rectangles of the sky. Ryan kneels down in front of one, tugging at the handle. "Some help?" he asks, not bothering to turn his head.

Brendon sighs and joins him, their shoulders and hands overlapping as they both push to turn the handle. It moves sluggishly before it gives, and the sudden lack of resistance has Brendon tumbling into Ryan, both of them sprawling on the wooden floor. Dust rises and settles, and Brendon laughs softly, helplessly. When he raises his head from Ryan's chest, Ryan is close and smiling. It's perfectly natural to kiss him, so Brendon does.

They miss the countdown. When they eventually sit up, dusty and a little breathless, Brendon's brain is buzzing with half-formed ideas he doesn't feel ready to face, and the first fireworks are exploding green and red in the sky.

"C'mon," Ryan says, crawling forward to stick his head out of the open window. Brendon squeezes in next to him, their cheeks pressed together because there really isn't enough room. It's more comfortable once Brendon wraps an arm around Ryan's shoulders. Ryan throws him a brief, questioning glance.

"Easier," Brendon huffs out.

"Oh," Ryan says, then, "Right," and he leans into Brendon's body.

They don't speak while fireworks brighten the sky, a thousand shimmering stars that sizzle for a moment before they fade. Even through the hissing and crackling of the explosions, Brendon can feel Ryan's breathing, quiet and steady under his palm. 

The trouble with New Year's, Brendon thinks, is that after it's over, the rest of vacation transforms into an increasingly slipperier slope, and the days pass faster than ever. Brendon's existence is – embarrassingly enough, and though he'll never admit it – reduced to the two constants of work and Ryan, and the rest of any day slips past when he's not looking, sand between his fingers. He's getting a little spoiled, he thinks, the first bearable vacation in a year, and going back to school is something he'll only do grudgingly, when before this he had just wanted to get it over and done with as soon as possible.

Still, he's looking forward to Ryan fucking _going__home_ and getting out of his hair for a while. Ryan doesn't even pretend to leave anymore; Brendon will come home from work and Ryan will be walking up to his apartment at the same time, backpack – presumably filled with clean clothes – slung over one shoulder in that innately annoying way Ryan has, and he'll fall right into step beside Brendon and start rambling about how moronic Brendon looks in his work clothes, or wondering aloud in a bitchy sort of way exactly when Brendon's going to wash the sheets, as apparently they're fucking gross.

Ryan laughs, clear and true, smiling up at the ceiling in wordless response to something Spencer has said on the phone. Seriously, Brendon thinks, what the fuck is it with those two, and he swallows hard and wraps his hand around Ryan's foot, without pausing for thought, curving his hand under Ryan's sole, running it along the arch of his foot, Ryan's skin cold to his touch. Brendon concentrates on the book open in his lap. He's behind in the homework he was meant to do these past few weeks.

"Anyway, I'll call you later," Ryan says, and sits up properly, hanging up and pulling his foot away from Brendon's grasp. A moment later, he pushes Brendon's book aside and crawls half into Brendon's lap, kissing him sloppy and graceless. Ryan came home from a shift at his clothing store pissed off and tired, the straight line of his back radiating fury. He had chucked a bright, barely worn t-shirt at Brendon's face, said, "_There_," with no small amount of venom, and stalked off to call Spencer.

Now, he pushes Brendon down onto his back and spreads himself over him, heavy and annoyingly pointy on top of him. Brendon will call him on it later; for now, he kisses Ryan back, hums pleased in the back of his throat at the lazy roll of Ryan's hips.

Ryan breaks away just slightly, their faces still close together, breathing raggedly, and Brendon mumbles without meaning to, "You bought me a t-shirt?"

Ryan goes tense, pushing himself up until he's hovering over Brendon. His elbow isn't digging into Brendon anymore, at least, Brendon thinks, and tries not to squirm under Ryan's scowl. "Whatever," he says sharply. "It was on special and I – I ripped that thing of yours, once, so. Now I don't owe you shit."

"Okay," Brendon says. It comes out almost peaceable and he thinks maybe he should have made it ruder, drawled it out, made Ryan flush, angry and embarrassed. It does the trick, anyway, and Ryan sinks back down on top of him and kisses him again, which, after all, Brendon likes a lot more than when Ryan talks.

"I don't owe you _anything_," Ryan says, fierce against Brendon's mouth, and Brendon closes his eyes and arches up blindly into Ryan's touch. 

On the Friday night before school, Brendon says, "I am so fucking behind," and Ryan looks up at him from _A__Prayer__For__Owen__Meany_, raises an eyebrow. Brendon is quieter and quieter these days, waiting for Ryan to pick a fight before he gets angry, and even then his responses lack the usual life-or-death feel that used to have him swinging out blindly, Brendon, who has never gotten into a fight with another kid all through the time they'd been at school (although it's not, Ryan thinks, as if he has, either). He looks tired all the time, worn out and weary in a resigned kind of way, like he is slowly and inevitably losing something. Ryan doesn't know what it is, in Brendon's head; belief, or motivation, or maybe a fight.

"Behind in what?" he asks. It comes out quiet and calm, and Ryan wonders at what's going on, something heavy and afraid knotting in his stomach.

"School shit," Brendon says, and groans, stretching his arms up, leaning against the wall. "I've still got two sets to do for Trig, and I haven't even started physics yet."

"Boo hoo," Ryan says, idly, but then sits up slowly, mouth twisting into a grimace. "Me too. I've got a huge fucking essay to write." Brendon scoffs quietly at that, but Ryan ignores him, not in the mood for a fight. He says, slowly, "I think maybe… I should go home, and like. Work on it, I guess. This break has been kind of lazy."

Brendon looks stricken for a moment, eyes wide and surprised, and Ryan ducks his head. He doesn't understand how Brendon can be so unreadable most of the time, nearly_all_of the time, only to occasionally give glimpses of insight into what he's thinking that just frustrate Ryan more. He wishes Brendon would fucking _control_himself; Ryan's head is cluttered enough without adding the frightening, alien concept that Brendon wants him here.

"Don't cry, or anything," he says roughly, and Brendon pulls himself straight, rolls his eyes.

"Sorry," he says. "I was just trying to work out how I could possibly manage to keep an apartment clean and with food in it all by myself. Oh, wait, I do that already."

"Fuck you," Ryan says, glaring and pushing himself up to his feet, grabbing his backpack from the ground. He makes his way around the apartment, gathering his stuff, wondering how it managed to spread all over the place like this. "It's not my fucking place."

"Yeah," Brendon says, folding his arms and glaring at Ryan. "But I've been forced to put up with you all this time anyway."

"Oh, sorry," Ryan retorts. "Did you develop some kind of moral objection to getting laid for the first time in your life?"

"It's not the first time," Brendon begins, with almost automatic anger, but Ryan raises his eyebrows with his best patronizing face on, and Brendon falls blissfully silent, blushing.

"Alright, then," Ryan says, smirking, and picks up the phone on Brendon's kitchen counter.

"That one's mine," Brendon tells him.

Ryan sighs heavily. "I _know_, moron." He dials his number on it, waits for his phone to ring and then hangs up, knowing Brendon's number will be in missed calls. Then he programs his number into Brendon's phone, under _ryan__ross_.

When he looks up, Brendon's watching him with an uncertain expression. "What?" he snaps. "I'm bored of hanging around your shitty place waiting for you to come back and open it, and I'm sure as fuck done stopping by your work." He pauses and then meets Brendon's impassive gaze straight on, scowling at him, something twisting in his gut. "Unless you've had enough with this – thing, that is."

"No," Brendon says, quiet and clear. "No, I'm good."

"Fine then," Ryan says, and tosses Brendon's phone back on the counter a little too hard, reaching and slinging his backpack over one shoulder. He pauses at the door, though he doesn't know why, what he's waiting for. They haven't really done anything today; Brendon worked in the morning, was gone before Ryan woke up, and when he got back, Ryan had just started watching Fight Club. Now, he looks at Brendon's mouth, Brendon's hands twisting in the hem of his t-shirt, and has to bite back, _God,__I__want__you__to__fuck__me_.

"Hey," Brendon says, suddenly. "You – you really wanna see Shaun of the Dead?"

Ryan tilts his head and regards Brendon squintily, waiting for the trap. "Yeah," he says slowly, grudgingly.

"The theater around the corner is playing it," Brendon tells him, staring in a determined way at a patch of plaster to the left of Ryan's ear. "We could go see it on, uh, Sunday night, maybe. If you wanted to – to do something before school starts. Uh."

"Oh," Ryan says. "Oh. Um, yeah, okay."

"Alright," Brendon says, still not looking at him properly. "Eight o'clock, then? I'll meet you there."

"Sure," Ryan says, and waits until he gets downstairs and into his car before he starts to smile.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Part**____**7/9**_  
>Continued from <span>here<span>. 

Ryan finishes the last of his homework at six o'clock on Sunday, and stretches back in his chair, cracking his fingers over his head and dropping his pen triumphantly on the floor. He spends about five minutes flipping through his books, half to check he didn't forget anything and half to feel smug and superior for a while. Then, he stands up and goes downstairs, heats up some instant noodles for a brief dinner. His dad isn't home, and Ryan feels a little aimless for a while, drifting stupidly from room to room. Eventually he heads up the street to the corner shop and buys three packets of candy. It's always ten times more expensive at the movies.

It's about forty-five minutes on public transport to get to Brendon's place, Ryan thinks on his way back. He could drive, but his car has started making dubious clunking noises, and it's probably for the best if he gives it a rest for a while. Jon usually drives them around during school time, anyway.

He hesitates for a moment. It's too early, really, to be getting ready, but he figures if nothing else he can go and meet Brendon at his place. He wonders if they'll watch the movie. So far, they don't have the best track record at doing something for longer than forty-five minutes before pausing to fight or make out. He goes and showers, washes his hair, sings quietly to himself under the stream of the water.

It takes some rummaging through his drawers, but after a while he comes up with a clean pair of jeans and shirt, and he blow-dries his hair and puts some eyeliner on, too. He hasn't gotten dressed properly in a while; he spent most of the time in Brendon's apartment slobbing around, barely dressed at all, and he doesn't bother that much when he's going to work. Now, he moves quickly; sure, deft movements, and there's a song stuck in his head, something with trumpets and strings.

He's almost about to leave when the sight of himself in his mirror catches his eye. He was just looking in it a moment ago, of course, but now he stops and stares properly. He looks dressed up, looks his best, hair falling artfully over his face. He also looks kind of excited. Mostly, Ryan thinks, mostly, he looks like he's about to go on a date.

Ryan freezes. This was never meant to – but now he thinks about it, Brendon's cautious expression on Friday, and Ryan hadn't stopped smiling all the way home, and he doesn't, he doesn't _want_this. He doesn't even like Brendon, this whole thing is fucking his head up, and he rips his shirt off almost viciously, tossing it on the floor and throwing himself back on his bed, kicking off his shoes.

"Fuck it," he says. He doesn't have any sort of fucking obligation to Brendon, doesn't need to go _any_where if he doesn't want to, and this is too much, too weird, too close. Ryan breathes out and turns around, shoves his face in his pillow. He doesn't put music on. He lies there unmoving, the minutes passing with his excruciating slowness.

His phone doesn't go off at eight o'clock, or anytime after that, and Ryan doesn't move. 

The first morning of school is never great. Ryan's always grumpy and pissed off and feeling cheated, like the vacation has gone too fast, and he's very much not a morning person, anyway.

The first morning of school, Ryan finds out, is considerably worse when it begins with Spencer and Jon hurrying across the parking lot towards him. Jon looks cautious but Spencer opens, bluntly, with, "Ryan, did you know everyone's talking about how you apparently sucked off the English substitute teacher under his desk last term?"

Ryan gapes at him. "I _what_?"

"Easy, Spence," Jon murmurs, and steps up properly. "Don't freak out, Ryan. But um, yeah, we heard it from Cash, who heard it from one of the Alexes—"

"—who heard it from Lindsey, who heard it from Vicky, who heard it from Quinn," Spencer finishes.

Ryan runs his hands through his hair, mind reeling. "How the fuck did Quinn come up with this?"

Spencer smiles grimly. "Well," he says. "For that, I'd ask the guy who apparently saw you in the first place."

Ryan swallows hard. "Who's that?" he asks, a heavy weight settling in his stomach. He already knows.

Jon looks sympathetic. "Brendon Urie," he says. 

Ryan's first reaction is blind fury because seriously, how _dare_ Brendon, who the fuck does he think he is, spreading rumors like that? When Ryan passes a group of football jocks who wouldn't be out of place in one of those clichéd high school comedies, their heads turn towards him, one of the guys hollowing his cheeks while the others laugh. Ryan balls his fists in his pockets and keeps his chin high.

Next to him, Jon shakes his head. "It's not like anyone believes it," he tells Ryan. "It's Brendon, and you. They all know better than that."

"Really?" Ryan keeps his voice even. "Then why's everyone laughing at me, huh? Why are they all fucking _talking_ about it?"

Jon knocks their shoulders together as they turn the corridor towards the biology classroom. "Hey, it's as good as opportunity as any to have a little fun. No need to believe it to drop nasty comments, you know how it is."

Yeah, Ryan does.

He's about to reply when his gaze settles on Brendon, leaning against the wall opposite the classroom. His shoulders are hunched in and he's glaring at the floor while two vaguely familiar guys and a girl are mocking him, _thou__shalt__not__lie,__hey,__ever__heard__of__that?_

It didn't occur to Ryan that Brendon might have hurt himself more than he hurt Ryan. Brendon isn't stupid; he knows that his own runaway mouth and snappy attitude haven't endeared him to people. Maybe that's why he hasn't tried anything like this before.

Ryan isn't stupid, either. He's perfectly capable of adding up two and two, and what it boils down to is that Brendon cares. That it wasn't just Ryan's subconscious that made him dress up as if he were on his way to a date.

Ryan's breath comes a little harder, but he manages to pass Brendon on his way into the classroom without so much as a sideways glance. 

They've never been good at ignoring each other. Somehow, Ryan makes it through biology without any outward reaction to Brendon hissing instructions at his lab partner, and then Ryan leaves as quickly as he can, Jon hurrying to keep up. He manages to avoid Brendon for the rest of the day.

When he gets home from the clothing store, he cooks himself a pot of pasta, far too much for one person, and he eats in on the couch in front of the TV. He doesn't think about going over to see Brendon.

_wanna__come__ovr?_ Spencer texts him shortly after eight. Ryan doesn't reply.

He goes to bed early that night, still no trace of his dad, and then he just lies awake for what feels like the better half of an eternity. His dad gets home some time after midnight, stumbling about the place and cursing as he runs into a wall or some other solid object, whatever.

Ryan lies very still and silent and pretends to be asleep when the door creaks open. He wonders why his father bothers to check in the first place; Ryan doubts he has any lingering notions of being a good parent even when he's sober long enough to give it a thought.

It's another half hour before the house feels entirely peaceful again. When Ryan reaches over to press the button that makes his clock light up, it's shortly past one.

His car keys are on his desk. He could—

Ryan squeezes his eyes shut and rolls over, facing the wall. 

He's up way before his usual time and it gives him a chance to actually make some breakfast. He eats slowly, but it's still three quarters of an hour until he really has to leave. The kitchen feels too quiet and big for him.

His dad hates waking up to Ryan turning the music up too loud, so Ryan doesn't even bother turning on the stereo. The definition of 'too loud' is one that changes continually. It doesn't stop him from crouching down by the pile of CDs, running his fingers along the cases, most of them cracked in corners. Not that different from Brendon's laptop.

Ryan pauses on his copy of The Clash's London Calling. Some of the letters are in a faint pink, clearly not a modern design, and the CD falls out of the case when he opens it. He puts it back in and looks at his watch. Still more than half an hour. Brendon won't have left the apartment yet.

Ryan grabs the CD, his backpack and the car keys, and then he's out of the house. He vaguely wonders when he last spoke to his dad – four days, or five? It doesn't matter.

The drive over to Brendon's place feels almost too familiar by now. Ryan taps his fingers on the steering wheel when he has to wait at a red light and considers turning around, driving around the city until it's time to actually go to school. Instead, he catches a glimpse of his own tired eyes in the rear-view mirror when he twists around to reach for a bottle of water behind the driver's seat, and he thinks of Brendon's closed off expression yesterday.

He doesn't turn around.

The door downstairs opens without anyone having to buzz him in, and Ryan climbs the stairs slowly. The strap of his backpack cuts into his shoulder. Maybe Brendon already left.

He knocks twice, tentatively, then presses his ear to the wood. He doesn't hear anything and is about to take a step back and leave when the door is suddenly pulled open.

Brendon looks like shit. His face is tired, much more so than it was during their vacation, as if one day of school and work was already enough to exhaust him. He blinks at Ryan, slowly, and it takes longer than it should for his frown to appear. "What?" he says harshly.

Ryan shifts his weight from his left foot to his right. "Can I come in?"

"I'm about to leave."

"I can drive us both."

If anything, Brendon's eyes narrow. "Why? We don't have enough time for a quickie. That'd be fast even for you."

Ryan snorts and takes a step forward. Brendon doesn't step back. "Look," Ryan says. "I'm sorry I missed our—" Date. "I missed the movie."

"Then you shouldn't have." Brendon crosses his arms.

There's no nonchalant way to give him the CD, so Ryan doesn't even try. He lets his backpack slide to the ground and crouches down, mumbling, "I brought you something," without looking up at Brendon.

When he holds out the CD, Brendon doesn't take it right away. He keeps his arms crossed, and Ryan glances at him to find that the narrow-eyed stare has transformed into a full glare. It looks like he's biting the inside of his cheek.

Ryan rolls to his feet and lifts his head. "Oh, _stop_ it, okay? It's not a gift, or whatever, and could you just stop it with the fucking cheap thing? I just, this was lying around, there's two of them at home, and it's pretty broken already, so, you know."

It takes two seconds, three. Then Brendon's shoulders slump and he reaches for the CD, fingers brushing accidentally as he takes it from Ryan. "Really?" he asks, abruptly soft.

"Keep it, I don't care." Ryan shrugs, and he tries not to show how much lighter he feels when Brendon smiles at him, tentative at first. When Ryan returns it, Brendon's smile widens.

"Okay," he says.

Ryan nods and glances at his watch. "We should go."

Brendon takes a step back, his posture challenging. "We still have a few minutes."

"Yeah," Ryan says, repeats, "yeah," and then he kicks his backpack into the apartment, nudges the door shut with his hip, and it's hardly even a second before Brendon is pressed up against him, their mouths aligning easily. Brendon's tongue flickers out against his bottom lip and Ryan pulls him closer, one hand on the back of Brendon's neck.

He doesn't know why he went three days without this.

Brendon kisses hard, biting and licking and squirming right up against Ryan, until it feels like they don't have any space between them anymore and usually, usually Ryan would class this kind of thing in the 'fucking awesome' category of his head. Now, though, he's acutely aware that they've got about three minutes before they have to leave, and he pulls back just a tiny bit, enough to soften the kisses, small and easy. Brendon follows his lead and after a while it's barely the ghosts of kissing, mouths brushing lightly against each other.

Ryan murmurs, "Under the desk? _Really_?"

"Shut up," Brendon says. It doesn't have much heat behind it, and Ryan opens his eyes, grinning, to see Brendon watching him with a half amused, half annoyed kind of expression.

"I'm just a little surprised," Ryan tells him. "That was seriously the best you could come up with?"

"All the best lies have a hint of truth," Brendon answers, smugly, and Ryan rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, whatever," he says. "Wishful thinking, Urie."

Brendon screws his mouth up and pulls away. "We're going to be late," he says, crossing to pick up his bag and shove some books spread haphazardly across his kitchen table into it. "Come on."

"I'm ready," Ryan says. He steps aside with an exaggerated gesture while Brendon closes the door behind them, locks it. Ryan lingers close behind him, not enough for Brendon to call him on it, just enough so that he can watch the carefully straight line of Brendon's back, the way his hands are just a little unsteady with the keys, and snicker to himself.

He stops smirking when Brendon steps back deliberately fast, knocking his elbow into Ryan's chest hard. Ryan huffs in surprise and Brendon laughs, darting down the stairs easily. He carries himself with a sudden lightness, and Ryan swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat.

"Hey," he calls, and Brendon turns, looking impatient. Ryan starts down the stairs towards him and says, "I will, if you want."

"Will what?" Brendon asks, starting to walk again a little behind Ryan.

Ryan pushes his hair out of his face and turns his head to look at Brendon. "Suck you off under a desk," he says. Then he speeds his steps up, laughing stupidly to himself, and Brendon trails after him, grumbling under his breath about stupid assholes who think they're funny.

Ryan means it, is the thing. But maybe he'll tell Brendon that later. 

They don't really talk on the way, but Ryan's humming under his breath again. It's taken Brendon a long time to notice he does that, mostly because generally Ryan doesn't get in the exact right mood of absent-minded and vaguely contented combined that it takes for any such humming to begin very often. A while ago, maybe, he would have called Ryan on it; now, it's just background noise. Every now and then, Brendon will admit grudgingly, it's maybe a little comforting.

When they're about three blocks away from the school, Brendon unbuckles his seatbelt and drags his bag up into his lap. "Alright," he says. "Pull over."

Ryan looks at him like he's a moron. "We're not there yet," he drawls, raising his eyebrows. "I would have thought you'd know the difference between the place you've spent the last four and a half years and a closed gym, science boy."

Brendon rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah," he says. "I'll walk from here."

Ryan blinks, and pulls over a little slower than usual (and that's saying something). "I don't – what?" he says, voice confused, and, fuck. Brendon shifts uncomfortably. It_would_be now that Ryan picks to turn into an idiot.

"Well," he says, trying to be patient, even though he's not so good at that, especially not when it comes to Ryan. He knows a peace offering when he sees one, though, and the CD and Ryan's face – anyway. "Unless you want to turn up to school together and freak everyone out…"

"Oh," Ryan says. His face goes stony, and he taps his fingers against the steering wheel, a little sharply, _ratatatat_. "Right. Of course."

"Thanks," Brendon says, awkwardly. "For the lift."

Ryan lifts one shoulder and drops it, not looking at Brendon. "Sure. Whatever."

"_Jesus_," Brendon spits. He leans in and kisses Ryan hard once, mouths knocking together a little awkwardly. "Don't be such a fucking _loser_. Aren't you over sulking yet?"

Ryan glares at him, but the corners of his mouth are twitching. "Fuck you," he says, and it comes out naturally, almost warm.

"Most people get over tantrums once they go to high school," Brendon tells him, hopping out of the car, and Ryan rolls his eyes and doesn't say anything else. When Brendon closes the door he just pulls away from the curb and drives off, and Brendon crouches over his bag, pretends he's checking something. The lights are red ahead, and he doesn't want to have that awkward moment when they're alongside each other again.

He looks up when Ryan's car peels away around the corner, and slings his bag over his shoulder. "Fuck," he says. He starts walking.

At school, Ryan is standing on the steps with Spencer and Jon on either side of him. He looks up and Brendon ducks his head, but it's too late, and when he glances back up again, Ryan is still watching him, expression unreadable. Then Jon grabs his arm and all three of them turn away, and disappear through the doorway.

"Fuck," Brendon repeats. 

If Brendon thought senior year was hard last semester, this semester seems determined to make him miss each comparatively tiny load of homework. By Wednesday afternoon, he's already been forced to call work and tell them that he needs to cut down on his shifts per week, or there's just going to be no way he can finish school. Then he goes and sits in the corner of his apartment and freaks out a little bit.

He wants to call Ryan, sort of. Ryan's number is in his phone – Ryan _gave_him his number – but it's, Brendon feels too uncertain around Ryan these days, too unsure of his own footing. They've barely had a chance to speak these past few days, anyway; both of them incredibly busy, and the only real interaction they've had was a chance encounter between classes on Tuesday after lunch. Brendon's music class had been cancelled and he was on his way home when Ryan appeared, caught his gaze, and then pulled him into the nearest bathroom, leaning up against the door to block it from intruders and kissing hard and frantic for a moment.

"You look tired," Ryan had said, and then ducked away, back to his class, leaving Brendon wide-eyed behind him.

No, he can't call Ryan. He presses two on his speed dial instead.

"Hey, honey," Kara picks up with. "One sec, I'll call you back."

"Kay," Brendon says, and hangs up. He counts to fifteen and then the phone rings again, and Brendon answers quickly. "Hey."

"How's it going?" Kara asks. "Is everything alright? I haven't heard from you in a while."

"I know," Brendon says. "Sorry, I was working and stuff. Did you have a good New Year?"

"Yeah," Kara says. "It was a bit lame, though. Tommy had an upset tummy the night before and I was tired, so I fell asleep before midnight and everything." Brendon laughs, and he can hear Kara smiling across the line when she says, "I suppose it's unnecessary to ask if you stayed up?"

"Yeah," Brendon says. "Found the top floor of this place to watch the fireworks and everything, too. It was pretty cool."

"Awesome," Kara says. She hesitates. "You sure everything's alright?"

Brendon scratches his forehead. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I – I just had to cut down some shifts at the smoothie place, is all. It's like. I really need to get a scholarship if I want to – to get to college, but I have to be able to get rent and then transport over there and stuff—"

"You're still set on Chicago?"

"Yeah," Brendon says. He and Kara fought about this for nearly a month when he first moved out; now she just sounds resigned. "I just. I need to not be in Vegas for a while."

"I know," she says. "I know, Brendon." She's quiet for a moment and then says, "I was sorry I didn't get to give you a Christmas gift."

"Hey, no," Brendon says. "I didn't get you anything, either. I wasn't expecting—"

"I know you weren't," she says. "But it was unfair, all the same. I had to wait a bit, Brendon, though. For Grandpop's gifts, you know, and some other stuff. James was down here for Christmas, did you know?"

"I heard," Brendon mumbles. Kara doesn't ask how.

"Yeah," she confirms. "Anyway. He was here, and Susie couldn't come down from Hawaii, but I talked to her. Have you checked your mail today?"

"No," Brendon says, slowly.

"Go on," she says, and Brendon gets to his feet and runs quickly downstairs to where their letters are kept, phone pressed to his ear. When he unlocks the little metal door, there's a bill and a plain white envelope, with just his name and address on the front, no return address at all.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Open it and see," Kara tells him, and Brendon opens it carefully. His heart feels like it stops for a minute, and then he eases out the cheque carefully. It's nearly twelve hundred dollars.

"Oh my God," he whispers. His voice comes out as little more than a soft wheeze.

"Merry Christmas, honey," Kara says. "You'll get to college. I promise." 

They're supposed to turn their cell phones off during their shift. Brendon doesn't get a lot of calls and he forgets sometimes, so when it buzzes just as he's putting together an apple-vanilla-mango thing, he's glad it's just Haley with him today. He's fairly certain she won't tell on him.

The blender whirs over the music, and Brendon throws a covert glance at the line of customers before turning his back. He tries to be inconspicuous about pulling out his phone, the display already a little darkened with age. Ryan's name is at the top of the short message.

Brendon flicks another glance at the customers before he allows himself to read it. He's not eager to. It's just that he's happy to seize upon anything that will relieve the boredom of work, no matter how small.

_my__dad's__on__business__for__a__few__days__leaving__tomorrow.__wanna__come__over?  
><em>  
>Quickly, Brendon rereads the message before letting the phone slide back into his pocket and turning off the blender. He ran into Ryan at school today, but it was just a passing glance in the hallway. It made Brendon's heart speed up stupidly, so he had turned his head away and frowned at some kid that was standing in his way.<p>

He waits with his reply until he gets off work. The bus is almost empty this late, only a couple of teenagers at the back while Brendon sits right above the wheels, trying not to let the humming engine lull him to sleep.

The ceiling light nearest to him is broken, so the display is glowing faintly when Brendon starts writing his reply.

_As__long__as__there's__food._

Brendon doesn't look up when Ryan shoves past him on the way to the lockers with a snapped, "Get out of my fucking way, Urie," but he does feel the ghost of Ryan's hand on his hip, two fingers slipping into Brendon's pocket before he's gone. For good measure, Brendon levels a glare at his back and isn't quite sure when this became about going through the motions, keeping up appearances rather than any purpose behind it.

Once he rounds the corner into the next corridor, shouldering past other students on his way, he withdraws the note from his pocket. It looks like Ryan tore it out of a pad or something. There's no signature, just Ryan's wide scrawl. _If__you're__not__working,__I'll__pick__you__up__at__four.__(Am__out__of__phone__credit.)_

When their eyes meet in the cafeteria, Ryan's tray full while Brendon decides that he'd be fine with just an apple, Brendon nods quickly, nearly imperceptible, before he looks away. 

It's ten to four when Brendon lets Ryan into his apartment, a remark already on the tip of his tongue; _so__desperate__to__see__me_. Before he gets around to it, though, Ryan has pushed him back against the wall, mouth rough on Brendon's, tongue sliding inside without so much as a courteous greeting. Brendon's heart wasn't in the mocking, anyway. He curls his tongue around Ryan's, tilting his hips to rub up against him, and there's a frantic moment when they simultaneously reach for each other's shirts, hands knocking.

With a breathless laugh, Brendon slumps against the wall and allows Ryan to take the lead, lifting his arms for Ryan to pull the shirt over his head. Fuck, it's been a _week_.

"Tough week?" Ryan asks into the curve of Brendon's neck, just before he sucks on a spot below Brendon's jaw. Brendon lets out a sharp breath and tips his head back, and it takes him a moment to discard his initial surprise at Ryan reading his thoughts. _You__look__tired_, his memory supplies, along with the image of Ryan's eyes unguarded in the clinical light of the school restroom.

"Yeah," Brendon mutters. "Second half was better, though."

Ryan looks up from underneath his lashes, and it makes something tighten in Brendon's chest. "Generous tip from a customer?"

"Christmas present from my sister," Brendon says, without thinking.

"Oh. I didn't know you still—" Ryan cuts himself off, but it's not as if the sentence isn't easy to complete. Brendon lifts one hand to the small of Ryan's back, pushing the shirt up enough to get his fingers on bare skin. It's warm to the touch. He blinks up at the bland white-gray of a ceiling that hasn't seen fresh paint in years.

"We talk on the phone, when she's sure no one's around to notice. And she leaves me food and letters, sometimes, you know."

Ryan clears his throat, pausing with his lips pressed against Brendon's jaw line. "Okay," is all he says. Brendon isn't used to being grateful to Ryan Ross, but just this once, he is. Something about it feels strangely surreal, the moment stretched too tight, suspended. Brendon dips his fingers below the waistband of Ryan's jeans, enough to feel the crack of Ryan's ass through the boxers.

"Your week?" Brendon asks.

Ryan exhales against Brendon's cheek. "Fine."

The word sounds like empty bottles and heavy silence. Brendon kisses it away before it has a chance to really manifest between them, and Ryan sinks against him and presses closer. He makes a soft noise when Brendon's hand slips into his boxers, the dry tip of Brendon's index finger just barely touching the puckered entrance to Ryan's body. Ryan's reaction consists of trying to shift forward and back at the same time.

"Bed?" Brendon suggests.

Ryan's eyes flutter open, and it looks like it requires effort. "What, too weak to fuck me against a wall?"

Wow, that shouldn't be hot. Or should it? Brendon isn't sure. "Strong enough for _your_ bony ass, Ross." Then it hits him that they're bantering, Jesus Christ, and he immediately shuts off that thought and pushes the tip of his finger into Ryan, just nudges it inside and feels Ryan's breath damp on his cheek.

"C'mon," Ryan mutters, and then he's the one tugging Brendon towards the bed. They fall down still tangled, pressed close, Ryan on his back with Brendon sprawled over him, wrist twisted at an awkward angle because his hand is still on Ryan's ass. Ryan wraps one leg around Brendon's waist and does this thing where he lifts his hips off the bed, rubbing up against Brendon, and shit, shit, Brendon doesn't want to come already just from this, Ryan would never stop mocking him if he did. They didn't even take off their pants yet.

He manages to untangle himself enough to reach for the lube on the floor. Then he pauses, half-suspended over Ryan who gives him an impatient look. "What?" Ryan asks.

"Um." Brendon sits back carefully, and he's in between Ryan's legs and it's been a _week_, fuck. "Condom?"

"What do you mean, condom?" Ryan's fingers still on Brendon's thighs.

"Well, you're the one who put on the last one, I thought you'd—"

"If _I_ put on a condom to, like, fuck _your_ brains out, okay, because you weren't complaining." It looks faintly ridiculous, Ryan glaring up at Brendon with his hair tangled on the pillow, his hard-on still obvious. "Anyway, just, how does that make _me_ the one who has to buy more?"

_Because__you're__the__one__who__doesn't__have__to__eat__on__three__dollars__a__day_, Brendon doesn't say. He crosses his arms and evenly meets Ryan's glare. There's an excited flush high on Ryan's cheeks.

Suddenly, Ryan's lips twitch and he looks away. "Sorry," he says, but he's clearly suppressing a snort of laughter. Brendon shoves at his shoulder, and Ryan easily rolls with it, mattress dipping under him and upsetting Brendon's balance, making him collapse half on top of Ryan. A faint trace of laughter starts vibrating in Brendon's stomach, traveling higher up into his chest.

"Asshole," he tells Ryan, but even he can hear there's absolutely no heat in it.

Ryan grins up at him, eyes bright with amusement, and it takes a moment before Brendon shakes his head and snickers softly. "I have condoms at home," Ryan says.

"We could just do something else, like…" Brendon lets the sentence trail off and flicks his eyes down at the bulge in Ryan's jeans.

"We could, yeah." Ryan pauses. His voice is hesitant and defiant at once, daring Brendon to make a wrong comment. "Just, okay, I'm kind of in the mood for fucking, okay?"

"You want me to fuck you," Brendon says slowly. He doesn't even try to fight his shit-eating grin because this? It's worth savoring.

"So? I remember you _begging_ for it, Urie."

Brendon lifts one shoulder, and his grin doesn't fade in the least. "You have a nice cock."

For a second, it looks like Ryan has no idea what to say. Then he shakes his head and snorts, rolling out from under Brendon with one swift movement. "Get your laundry," he says.

Brendon stares at him. "What?"

"Laundry." Ryan meets the stare with a blank expression. His shoulders are inched back, just a little. "Dirty clothes, you know? I have a washing machine at home. And detergent. The works."

Brendon draws a slow breath and tries not to think. There are a lot of questions in his head, stupid ideas and a sick feeling in his stomach, but all he says is, "Okay." 

The car drive over to Ryan's house is mostly silent. Brendon's laundry is in two plastic bags on the backseat, and Ryan is oddly unreadable again, staring straight ahead in a show of being focused on the traffic. Something about it irritates Brendon.

When they pull up at a red light, he takes the opportunity to reach over and rest his hand in Ryan's lap. Ryan is still hard under his palm, hot even through the denim, and he snaps his head around to look at Brendon. "Eyes on the road," Brendon says softly.

Ryan frowns. Brendon drags his knuckles down the length of Ryan's cock, and Ryan inhales sharply, bucking up against the touch as if he can't help it.

"Eyes on the road," Brendon repeats.

Ryan swallows and obeys. The light turns green and he steps on the gas again, driving faster than he did before. Brendon lets his hand rest in Ryan's lap and bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He's pretty sure Ryan would take offense to that. 

Ryan's house looks slightly cleaner than Brendon remembers it. The curtains are all open, and the afternoon light makes it seem a little friendlier; there are no bottles in the table, although the faint scent of beer still pervades through the house. Brendon squints around the place and then turns to Ryan, raising his eyebrows.

"Did you _vacuum_?" he asks. Ryan glares and opens his mouth, but Brendon can only keep his expression straight for a second before he bursts out laughing, dropping the bags of clothes leaning back against the wall. The week feels like it's getting better still, and when he glances over, Ryan looks annoyed and amused at the same time, and he's smiling, the big one that Brendon's still not used to.

"If you're finished," Ryan begins, coolly, but Brendon starts to mime pushing a vacuum and makes a _zoom_ing noise with his mouth, and promptly starts laughing again.

He closes his eyes and begins to say, through his giggles, "Did you wear a little apron – mmf." He kisses Ryan back a little tentatively, almost shy all of a sudden, and then sighs when Ryan pulls away.

"Yeah, you'd like that, I'm sure," Ryan says, soft in his ear, and Brendon opens his eyes and smiles up at him, can't help it, not with Ryan pressed all along his body like this, like it's easy, like everything's going to be fine.

"I dunno, Ross," Brendon says. "Is it one of those flowery things? My grandma used to wear them. That would be pretty scarring."

"I think I'd have better taste than that," Ryan tells him.

"Have you _seen_some of the shirts you wear?" Brendon raises his eyebrows, voice skeptical. "I'm not sure if we can avoid the flower obsession."

"Hey," Ryan begins, scrunching up his nose, and to prolong an inevitable and boring argument, Brendon rocks up on his toes (it's _hard_, Ryan's busy leaning against the wall and over him in a way that means he gets to work the few scant centimeters of height he's got over Brendon) and kisses him, closing his eyes and humming out something soft and small when he slips his tongue into Ryan's mouth. Ryan sighs and slips his hand under Brendon's t-shirt, warm on his back, and Brendon hooks an arm around Ryan's neck and drags him down closer.

Ryan, in a spectacularly smooth move that Brendon plans on reminding him about for, oh, the rest of _all__time_, loses his balance and knocks both of them over onto the floor. Brendon lands heavily on his back, all of his breath rushing out of him, and it doesn't exactly help that Ryan flails around and slams his pointy elbows into Brendon's stomach when he lands on top. Brendon blinks up at him.

"Wow," he says. "That was really cool. You're pretty impressive, you know?"

"Fuck you," Ryan grumbles, and Brendon pushes himself up a bit, kisses Ryan hard and quick, ripping his mouth away and grinning.

"You've got condoms?" he says.

Ryan scrambles to his feet, looking stupidly eager, and Brendon follows him. 

"Dude!" Brendon says, when Ryan walks into the bathroom, but Ryan just gives him an unimpressed look and, to be fair, Brendon takes his point. Still, it feels weird – there's sex, and then there's walking in while Brendon's having a shower.

"S'my bathroom," Ryan says, and Brendon's not sure if that really makes a huge difference, but, sure, whatever. "I was just – I thought, uh, pizza for dinner. Is that alright?"

"I want one ham and pineapple," Brendon says immediately, "and one Napolitano."

Ryan blinks. "You're gonna eat both?"

"You paying?" Brendon asks. Ryan nods. Cheerfully, he says, "Yup!"

"Pig," Ryan mutters, but Brendon just laughs, and puts his head back under water, washing the shampoo out of his hair. When he's done, he realizes Ryan's been talking, eyeing Brendon through the glass door. Brendon resists the urge to do some foggy silhouetted dancing. He is not, he reminds himself, in a bad romantic comedy. Something twists a little bit in his stomach.

"Huh?" he says.

"I said," Ryan repeats, "How long are you going to shower _for_?"

"Have you seen my shower, Ross?" Brendon asks. He could be petulant, he knows, or mean, or even play the sad little abandoned kid angle, which seems to shut Ryan up more often than not, but he's enjoying himself, and the good humor shines through a little too easily. "This is _awesome_."

"It's not _that_great," Ryan says. Brendon can _hear_him rolling his eyes.

"It's got actual water pressure," Brendon says, blissfully. "And heat. And hey, lookit." He extends his arms, hands held up like he's in the process of waving, and, carefully, turns in a full circle. His hands just brush against the sides.

Ryan takes a slow step forward. "It is," he says, slowly, "Kind of big. Bigger than most, I guess."

"It's awesome," Brendon agrees, and then says, "Hey, what are you—"

"It's a big shower," Ryan says, and kicks off his pants.

"_Again_, Ross?" Brendon bites his lip to hold back his grin.

"Bite me," Ryan says, comfortably, and pulls the fogged up door open. He steps in and says, almost quietly, "Fuck, how hot do you have it?" but Brendon isn't listening, too busy tugging Ryan closer, spanning his hands over Ryan's bony hips. He drops his head and mouths along Ryan's collarbone, and then up his neck, Ryan tilting his head back obligingly, and he skims his hands along Ryan's ass, and down. Ryan's still wet, and Brendon presses just a fingertip inside, scrapes his teeth along Ryan's skin, and Ryan moans and shudders most gratifyingly.

Brendon tilts his head down and says, "Condom?"

"In my jeans pocket," Ryan murmurs, pressing back on Brendon's finger carefully, like he's vaguely worried he's going to slip over. "I thought – in case we wanted to, uh, downstairs—"

"Okay, one, dude, _who's_the eager one again?" Brendon grins and lets go of Ryan, hopping out of the shower and smacking Ryan's ass quickly when he makes a complaining noise. "And two, ow, carpet burn, no, thanks." He picks up Ryan's jeans from where he left them twisted on the floor and pulls out the strip of condoms, ripping one open and rolling it on as quickly as he can. When he gets back in, he gives the shampoo bottles a suspicious look, but there's a red stamp on the side of the conditioner that says 'organic', so Brendon sends up a silent prayer for the best and slicks his fingers up. Ryan presses up against him, mouth hot on his, rolling his hips against Brendon's, and man, Brendon forgets, sometimes, how incredibly needy Ryan can be when he gives up caring so much what Brendon thinks about him.

"Who says it's your turn to top?" Ryan breathes into Brendon's ear, and Brendon laughs and doesn't bother answering. Instead, he kisses Ryan again, soft under the hot water, and he likes this, even though the water makes it harder to breathe, he likes both of them pressed together naked and wet, likes the way this feels like something more adult, like maybe they're both of them somewhere sure and safe and this is something other than desperation and last-ditch attempts for something, for anything. Maybe more than all of that, though, he likes the soft, gasping sound Ryan makes when he slides a slick finger inside him, and the way Ryan drops his head so that his mouth is resting, soft and tentative, on Brendon's shoulder. 

Ryan dials for pizza and then, before Brendon gets the chance to find out where Ryan's living room is, drags him off to do the laundry. Most of "doing the laundry" seems to consist of Ryan giving him a bossy, stern and meaningless lecture about exactly how to work the washing machine (and really, Ryan is the _worst_ at explaining things, he actually uses the phrase "you turn the thing three clicks to the left and then pull out the thing for the other stuff" at one point) while Brendon blinks politely at him, and then of Ryan doing the whole thing for him. At some point Brendon unloads the clothes and puts them in the dryer, and with _that_one he's allowed to twist the dial, but the whole exercise is pretty ridiculous.

They finish just as the – ridiculously late – pizza guys arrive at the door, and Ryan goes and pays for it, and returns with three boxes that are hot and smell perfect, like cheesy fatty goodness that Brendon hasn't had in a million years, and he's grinning widely when he starts making grabby hands for them. Ryan rolls his eyes and says, "Living room, c'mon," and then leads the way.

Brendon takes one step into the room and freezes.

In the corner, with the lid down and dusty, is a relatively new – by Brendon's standards, anyway, and compared to his old one; maybe ten, fifteen years old? – and seemingly abandoned piano, a couple of books of sheet music on top of it, and then a bunch of other things (two empty candleholders, some textbooks that Brendon vaguely recognized from the year before, a couple of old yearbooks and a pile of junk mail) apparently shoved there over time and since forgotten, and Brendon guesses that the piano has been a storage area for some time, now. He can't look away from it.

"Brendon?" Ryan repeats, sounding kind of pissed off, and Brendon looks at him, forces himself not to get too carried away. It's just a goddamn _piano_, for fuck's sake. He just - he hasn't seen one outside of school since he left home, and especially since they've stopped letting kids into the music room to practice at lunchtime, he's barely gotten to play. Mr. Stump's helping him develop classical guitar stuff for the college apps, even though Brendon will still be trying to get in with piano, to make up for a year of lost learning. Stump says that with a decent couple of weeks of practice before the auditions/interviews Brendon will be fine, that he'll be good enough to pick it up again quickly, and Brendon trusts him, but oh, fuck, he's missed it.

"Sorry," he says, glancing up. "I just. I didn't know you played." He jerks his head at the piano, and Ryan looks uncomfortable.

"Oh," he says. "I don't. Play. I

it was my mom's, she didn't take it with her when she left."

Brendon flushes, despite himself. "Sorry," he says. Ryan shrugs and flips open the first box of pizza, and Brendon blurts out, "The music on top, is that hers too?"

"Yes," Ryan says, tightly, and then, quick and mean, "Shall we put a movie on? I'm not really that fond of hearing you talk."

Brendon thinks regretfully that he probably deserved that. 

It's late when Ryan finally drifts off to sleep, Brendon half-curved around him, a comforting weight across Ryan's waist. They'd watched two movies, in the end, and then fucked _again_, up in Ryan's room on the - reasonably large - mattress he'd dragged up last night for Brendon to sleep on. He'd been meaning to climb back up on his own bed, he really had, but it was warm and easy where he was, and besides, Brendon had fallen asleep almost suspiciously quickly, and since he was half on top of Ryan - anyway, Ryan just doesn't particularly want to wake him up.

It's too easy, he thinks uneasily, to be comfortable like this, with Brendon, but he falls asleep anyway.

When he wakes up it's still dark outside, and his radio alarm clock's flashing 3:19 at him, but there's music coming from downstairs, and Brendon's gone. Ryan staggers to his feet and reaches blindly for the sweater on his desk, pulling it on over his head. He's a bit cold - he guesses that's what happens when you fall asleep in boxers in late winter. Especially, he thinks, a little grumpily, when the eternally boiling up human blanket has hightailed it out of bed to listen to a CD too loudly in the middle of the night for whatever reason.

He almost trips going down the stairs and grumbles to himself. The music sounds faintly familiar, but he can't put a name to it - full, rolling piano that seems to take up all the space, heavy and rich and blossoming and a singer he doesn't recognize, _said__she'd__like__to__meet__a__boy__who__looks__like__Elvis_(and no, seriously, he _knows_this song), but they're good as well; a full, throaty voice. He wonders for an instant if it's one of his _dad's_CDs, but that's stupid, because his dad pretty much only listens to country music, and then he freezes in the doorway of the lounge room, because it's not a CD at all.

No, it's _Brendon_, back curved in front of the piano and hands moving and reaching with a surety that Ryan's never seen before, Brendon stretched and moving and singing huge and incredible, raising his head and wailing at the ceiling (it's Counting Crows, Ryan thinks numbly, he does recognize the song after all: _round__here__we__talk__just__like__lions__but__we__sacrifice__like__lambs_).

Ryan thinks, _I__have__known__you__for__a__long,__long__time,__known__you__well__enough__to__smash__your__face__in__as__a__sideline__to__my__stupid__fucking__life,__and__how__could__I__have__not__known__this_, and Brendon tosses his head and closes his eyes, selfish and unknowable and radiant, and sings, "Round here we stay up very, very, very, very late."

Brendon plays, and Ryan doesn't move, just leans there motionless, unable to take his eyes away from Brendon. Brendon plays incredibly well, plays like he could be doing it for a living. Ryan thinks about the times he and Jon sit around with guitars and Ryan's shitty voice and flushes, and then he thinks about the lyrics he doesn't have music for, and Brendon's voice, and then he stops, doesn't think about anything at all, leans against the doorway and listens.

The song finishes, and Brendon hums out something content and pleased, cracking his fingers. He's about to play something else, Ryan knows, and Ryan could stay and listen for as long as he likes, because Brendon hasn't bothered to turn on any lights and Ryan's out of his line of sight, but Ryan's tired of feeling like an intruder in his own home, so he steps forward slowly, coughs. Brendon whirls around so fast that Ryan expects to hear the whiplash.

"Shit," Brendon says, eyes wide, face tight and strained and looking like he's just waiting, just waiting for Ryan to cut him down, and Ryan breathes in sharply, wants to touch Brendon and kiss him, wants to sit beside him on the piano bench all night, wants to ask why he stopped, why he never did that before, why he's doing it now, all of a sudden.

Instead, he says, "I never knew that you could play like that."

"Oh," Brendon answers, meaninglessly.

Ryan looks at him and says, "You don't – you don't have a piano, at your apartment."

Brendon swallows hard, Ryan can see the way his throat moves. He says, quietly, "No."

"Or a keyboard."

"Or a keyboard," Brendon agrees.

"Okay," Ryan says. He pushes his hair behind his ear, looking down, suddenly shy. Then he crosses to the couch and lies down on it, says, "Play something else."

Brendon hesitates for a minute, like he's going to say no, but after a moment, he turns back and starts to play. Ryan recognizes it as something classical, though he couldn't name the composer. It's long and sad and wistful, and it has these tiny little detailed bits in it that Ryan likes and that make him wonder at how hard they must be to play, how good Brendon must be at the same time. Ryan lies back and listens to it and breathes in and out, but Brendon doesn't start singing again until he thinks Ryan's asleep.

Ryan's not asleep. 

Ryan wakes up stiff, sore and sweaty. Needless to say, he's had better mornings.

He groans and tries to roll over – only the heavy weight of another body is trapping him in place, keeping him pressed against the… right, the backrest of the couch, with his head awkwardly propped on the armrest. Ryan blinks one bleary eye open to find his vision taken up mostly by a heavy, scratchy woolen blanket and partly by Brendon's head, his mouth slack and quiet snuffles underlining each inhalation.

Ryan lets his head sink back onto the armrest and stares up at the ceiling. The sun's peeking in through the window, the too-bright beams adding to the headache that's starting to gather behind his forehead.

Brendon's voice, fingers sure on the piano keys, is the last thing Ryan remembers before he must have drifted off to sleep, long after midnight.

He untangles himself gracelessly, nearly tripping over his own feet as he climbs over Brendon's body. The house is eerily silent, except for the rhythmic, short-long-short ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway that hasn't shown the correct time in years, even though Ryan winds it weekly. If he didn't know Brendon was here, he'd probably feel a restless need to fill the rooms with sounds, music, anything that would keep the heavy silence from closing in on him. As it is, he still feels restless and unsettled, but he's pretty sure it's not connected to the lack of audible life around him.

He takes a shower to wake up his stiff muscles before he pulls on new clothes in his room, just a shirt and old sweatpants that sit loose on his hips, sliding down to show off his hipbones. For some reason, Brendon likes them. Ryan doesn't think Brendon would ever willingly admit it, but it's easy to recall the ghost sensation of Brendon's teeth sucking on the skin and pressing his thumb into the dip next to the arch.

With a vague sense of disgruntlement, Ryan glares down at his hardening cock. This is just… getting ridiculous.

Ryan quickly checks on the couch to find Brendon still asleep, one arm covering his face, before he wanders into the kitchen. The fridge is well stocked, Ryan made sure of that yesterday after school, but somehow, he can't decide on anything that appeals to him. Scrambled eggs, maybe. Then he remembers the first night at Brendon's place, waking up to an apartment smelling of burnt eggs.

He kicks the fridge door shut rather viciously.

When he goes to get a glass of water, he comes across his cell phone lying on the counter next to the sink. It shows him three missed messages, like a reproach, and Ryan's stomach contracts the moment he remembers that it was Friday, last night. Ryan hasn't missed the weekly movie marathon even once in those two years since they introduced it.

Predictably, two messages are from Spencer and one from Jon, combinations of _where__are__you_sand_you__okays_. Ryan starts typing a reply just as Brendon comes trudging into the kitchen, knuckling sleep out of his eyes, his hair standing up in wild tufts. Quickly, Ryan looks back down at his phone. "You look fucking ridiculous," he mutters._sorry,__sorry,__I__forgot,_ is all he can think of before he sends the text off.

"Huh." Brendon doesn't sound offended, more puzzled. When Ryan glances over once again, Brendon is just standing there, openly watching Ryan, his head tilted to one side. Ryan is pretty sure he hates him.

He does.

"Your sweats are too big for your lack of ass," Brendon eventually replies.

"At least mine's not so big I have to shop in the girl section," Ryan shoots back.

Brendon's smile isn't very sleepy anymore. "You like my ass, Ross. Don't lie."

And just like that, Ryan's at a loss again. He puts the phone away and rolls his shoulders back, and when his gaze meets Brendon's, he can't quite make himself look away again. His spine feels hot. His throat is too tight. "Thanks for covering me up, last night."

A fleeting expression of surprise passes over Brendon's face. Then he nods, shrugging. "Sure thing. Thanks for letting me use your piano."

"Yeah." Ryan bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes metal before he inhales deeply. "Since when do you play?"

"A while." Brendon's tone is hesitant, and for a long moment, silence closes in around them and it doesn't look as if he's going to elaborate. Then his lips quirk up at the corners. "My mom taught me, at first. When I was four. We had this huge black thing in the living room, and I'd been stabbing at the keys ever since I could reach them. Guess she was tired of me just randomly hitting whatever I could."

Brendon's mom.

Ryan tries to ignore just how much he feels like the breath's been knocked out of him. It doesn't mean anything that Brendon is just offering things like this. It's just… It's them. It's nothing.

"You're good," Ryan says.

Brendon beams like the sun, and Ryan's headache pounds behind his temples. "Thanks." Brendon takes a step closer, taking the glass from Ryan's loose grip and reaching around him to fill it with water. When Brendon turns his head, his breath is hot against Ryan's cheek. It takes Ryan a moment to realize that Brendon's offering the full glass to him.

He accepts it with a small smile that's too shy and uncertain. Brendon leans against the counter beside him, close enough for their shoulders to overlap. In a move that could almost pass for casual, Brendon slings an arm around Ryan's waist, fingertips resting on Ryan's left hipbone. "I hope," Brendon says, voice slow, "I'm good enough to get a scholarship."

"Did you apply already?" Ryan asks. He thinks of the application forms that have been spread out on his desk for a while now, how he couldn't make himself even fill in his last name just yet. He still hasn't told his dad he's not going to study law.

"Not yet." Brendon exhales. "I just, I haven't had the time, and I still need a recommendation from Stump, and I'm not sure—I was thinking Chicago."

"Chicago?" Too high and surprised. Too… too fucking _affected_.

"It's a nice city." Brendon sounds like he's not quite sure it really is, like he's mostly reciting something people told him. Stump, maybe; Stump studied in Chicago, and so did Wentz. Rumor has it Wentz followed Stump here, and Jesus, why's Ryan even thinking about stuff like that? "And Northwestern is a good school."

"Whatever," Ryan says, and then he twists away from Brendon and takes a step toward the fridge. His voice still doesn't sound even when he asks, "Pancakes?"

If Brendon notices – he probably doesn't, the fucker – he doesn't call Ryan on it. All he says is, brightly, "Pancakes would be great. Make me breakfast, Ryan Ross."

Ryan ducks his head into the fridge. He's grateful for the cool air on his heated face. "So d'you really think," he asks from his hiding place, "that running away to Chicago will make things easier with your family?"

Short-long-short, the grandfather clock counts out the passing seconds.

"What was that?" Brendon says, uncomfortably low.

Ryan doesn't turn around. Icy air blows across his face. "You heard me."

"Yeah." Then Brendon is silent. Ryan straightens, the box with eggs in one hand, milk in the other and a cheap smile on his face.

"You wanted pancakes?"

Brendon's eyes are cold. "I'm not hungry anymore."

"Suit yourself." Ryan lifts one shoulder and deliberately walks a wide circle around Brendon on his way to the stove. The milk carton sweats against his palm. He sets everything down on the counter and hums to himself, cheerfully.

It's, by all appearances, the last straw. "You fucking _asshole_," Brendon explodes, and then he's behind Ryan, shoving him forward against the edge of the counter. It digs painfully into Ryan's stomach and he manages to kick out against Brendon's ankle. Rather than lose balance, Brendon keeps himself upright with a too-tight arm around Ryan's chest, cursing low as he squeezes the air out of Ryan's lungs, Ryan's arms trapped by Brendon's grip.

Without much thought, Ryan pushes back with his whole body, making both of them stumble backwards. Brendon crashes into the table. He takes Ryan along when he falls, pulling him down, and it's probably not planned, but Ryan lands heavily on Brendon's chest with Brendon still keeping him turned around.

"Let me _go_," Ryan hisses. For good measure, he tries to plant his elbow in Brendon's stomach.

"Fucking _give__up_ already." Brendon's arm tightens painfully. There might be ribs cracked, Ryan thinks. There probably aren't. There'll be bruises, though, and he wonders if Brendon will kiss them later, trace them with his—

Fuck.

Ryan tries to free himself with a full-body turn, but Brendon anticipates the move and uses Ryan's own momentum to shove him onto the floor, the weight of Brendon's body pinning Ryan down. His arms are twisted at an awkward angle.

"Fuck you," Ryan mutters. His cheek is pressed against the kitchen tiles.

Brendon snorts triumphantly from above him. "Been there, done that."

"Fuck. You." It's about as eloquent as Ryan gets, right now. In response, Brendon grinds down against his ass, and… Whoa, okay. Ryan is pretty sure Brendon is hard. The thought is enough to make his own dick twitch, and that just, that can't be normal, can't be healthy, _Jesus_.

Brendon bends down enough for his lips to brush Ryan's earlobe. "You're such a slut for me."

"Look who's talking," Ryan grits out. When Brendon rocks down against him, wordlessly, breathing harshly into Ryan's ear, it makes Ryan's hips press into the floor, and. God.

Ryan shoves back and Brendon meets him, still heavy on Ryan's back, lips damp on the back of Ryan's neck. He's rutting against Ryan, utterly graceless, and the friction of Ryan's body sliding a few inches back and forth on the floor is painful, not really a turn-on except for how it is, somehow, and Ryan will never be able to come from this but that doesn't mean his body isn't _trying_.

His cheek is dragging over the floor each time Brendon grinds down, again, again, and Ryan squeezes his eyes shut, nothing but the feeling of Brendon hot against his back and the tiles cool under him. The ticking of the grandfather clock thumps behind his temples.

He bites down on a grown when he feels Brendon jerk one last time, forcefully, followed by a choked noise before Brendon stills. Ryan rests his forehead on the tiles and tries to calm his breathing.

He's still hard.

Brendon's weight eases suddenly. "Roll over," Brendon orders roughly, voice harsh.

Ryan doesn't bother opening his eyes. "Fuck off, asshole."

"Roll over and I'll suck you off." It still sounds like a command rather than an offer, but it's enough to make Ryan twist around, and a moment later, Brendon's hands are working the sweatpants down his hips. There's this frozen moment when Brendon exhales, warm against Ryan's cock.

Then Brendon swallows him down. No hesitation, no foreplay, just opens his mouth and sinks down and down and down, and Ryan is arching his back off the floor until Brendon shoves him back with one arm braced over Ryan's stomach to keep him still.

"I hate you," Ryan tells the empty air, breathless and weak, and Brendon hums something around Ryan's cock, hand tightening on Ryan's thigh.

Ryan's fingers find Brendon's head, mindlessly tangling in Brendon's hair. "Really," Ryan says, and then Brendon's tongue flicks out over the head of Ryan's cock. His eyes are steady on Ryan's face and, just, Ryan can't watch this, he can't, it's too much. He drops his head back onto the floor, allows himself to let go, and he's pushing against Brendon's hold as he's coming, coming, his mind black and his body convulsing in hot shudders while Brendon works him through it, throat moving as he swallows.

When Ryan comes back down, Brendon is lazily licking his cock clean and it hurts a little, the oversensitive skin twitching with the stimulation. "Stop," Ryan says softly, then adds, "please."

Brendon snorts and moves away. For a moment, Ryan thinks this is it, Brendon will get up and leave, one of them finally went too far. Instead, Brendon moves slightly up Ryan's body until he can rest his cheek on Ryan's stomach.

Blindly, Ryan stares up at the ceiling. He brings one hand up to massage tiny circles into Brendon's skull, and he doesn't let himself wonder.

He closes his eyes instead, and tries to move without knocking Brendon off, lifting his hips off the ground so he can pull his sweatpants back up. Brendon lies there quietly, doesn't say or do anything, and Ryan's hand goes back to his hair almost automatically, even as he watches Brendon narrowly out of the corner of his eyes. Hot, fierce anger wells up in him again, and there's something wrong with him, probably, but he still wants to touch Brendon, wants to hit and punch and scratch and lay his fingers all over, every inch of skin.

"I hate you," he says again, for lack of anything else that makes sense anymore, and Brendon's hair feels so soft against his fingers.

"You're a fucking liar, Ross," Brendon tells him, simply, like it doesn't frighten the hell out of Ryan, like it doesn't freeze him in place. "I'm going to shower." 


	8. Chapter 8

_**Part**____**8/9**_  
>Continued from <span>here<span>. 

When Brendon comes back downstairs, scrubbing his hand through wet hair and grateful for the clear-headedness the hot water has afforded him, Ryan's perched on the kitchen table, phone pressed to his ear. He is, Brendon notices with absent-minded delight, blushing.

"Oh my God, shut up," Ryan says, voice thick with laughter, and that's good at least, Brendon thinks, maybe he'll stop being such an uptight little _shit_, "Shut up, I can't – put Spence on, you're ridiculous." He adds, quickly, "And I _am_sorry," and then smiles a little, quick and small. Brendon hangs around in the doorway despite himself, curious.

"Hey," Ryan says, quieter now, almost regretful. "I'm sorry. I didn't – I just forgot. I'm really – I wouldn't ditch you on purpose, you know – and – _no_, I couldn't have _died_, Spencer, you dipshit," and his voice is so fond. "I'm just – my dad's away, you know, and." He hunches down, and then looks around as if on instinct, gaze locking on Brendon. Brendon raises his chin and steps into the kitchen, defiant, and Ryan says, without looking away, "Yes, with Brendon."

Brendon takes a few steps inside, and Ryan says, "I'll talk to you later, okay. Sorry." When he hangs up, Brendon leans across the table and kisses him, and Ryan curls a hand around his neck and tilts his head, opening his mouth easily.

"You stopped being a jerk?" Brendon mumbles against his mouth, and feels Ryan's lips twitch up into a smile.

"For a little while, maybe," Ryan says, and that's good enough for Brendon. 

It's a lazy kind of day, really. Brendon bought some schoolwork in a bag and this close to the end of the semester (the end of _high__school_, and God, he can't wait) he can't really afford to neglect that, so after breakfast (and Ryan does end up making pancakes, the sucker) he spreads his stuff out over the kitchen table and works for nearly three hours. Ryan spends most of the time on the computer (insisting he's writing an essay, but Brendon suspects the use of AIM).

When he's done, though, he wanders upstairs and stretches, falling back on Ryan's bed with a yawn. It's not meant to be an overtly seductive thing (Brendon's pretty sure that if he tried any of that, even now, it would end with one or both of them laughing hysterically) but he gets barely any warning before Ryan glances at him and practically _pounces_, sliding his hands up under Brendon's shirt. Before they really do anything, though, Brendon's stomach starts grumbling loudly, and soon Ryan's laughing too hard to do anything but run his hand along Brendon's side, so absently Brendon doubts he even knows he's doing it.

They eat again, and then watch another movie, and then Ryan drives Brendon in to his 5-9 shift at the Smoothie Hut. For a while, Brendon's unsure, and eventually he says, "Should I grab my bag and you could maybe drop it off at my place on your way back?"

"My dad won't be back until late tomorrow," Ryan says, almost mildly, and that's that.

About fifteen minutes before the end of his shift, Haley nudges him, grinning slyly. "Hey," she says. "I think your boyfriend's here."

Brendon flinches despite himself. "What? I don't have a boyfriend," he says on auto-pilot, and Haley turns bright red.

"Oh," she says. "Oh my God, I'm sorry, I just assumed with—"

"With _what_?" Brendon hisses, almost frantic.

"Well," Haley says, flushing. "It's just – he's Spencer's friend, right? And you two disappeared that time here, and the way he picks you up and drops you off sometimes, I just figured—"

"We're friends," Brendon says, roughly, and then makes a face, because that's not true, either. "We're not even that close, seriously, we're like – like study buddies or something."

"Okay," Haley says. "Okay, but I – you know I don't mind, Brendon, I mean, I wouldn't care or anything. And I just thought maybe because, because."

Brendon feels a little bad for her, at last, because she's stammering and bright red and clearly feels pretty bad, and he likes Haley, he does, but this is too close to the bone. He's been hoping that his dad didn't notice, that Brendon didn't cut off any possible last chances that are waiting somewhere someday, but if it's that obvious…

"I'm not," he snaps, and then pauses. "Because?"

Haley winces. "I'm sorry, Brendon," she says. "I really didn't mean to make you angry." She looks down and then back up, takes a breath, and says, "Have you considered that he might – might be interested, though?"

Brendon blinks. He feels a little bit like he's walked into some sort of bad movie. "Why?"

"Well, by my count he's been here about ten minutes," she says. "I only just recognized him. But he's been staring at you the whole time."

"Um." Brendon swallows and finally, finally looks back over his shoulder, towards the corner of the shop, and sees a flash of dark hair before his gaze settles properly on Ryan. Ryan's just reading, looking more bored than anything else.

Haley smiles a little mischievously, getting back her humor, and says, "Well, he's not looking _now_."

"Um," Brendon says. "I'm just going to go get a refill for the strawberry ice cream."

He stands out in the back room for a long time, bending over the freezer in a stupid attempt to get his face to cool down. It feels like a long while before he's sure he can go out without looking red, and when he finally remerges it's only two minutes before the store closes. Ryan is the last customer left.

"Bye, Brendon," Haley says. "Sorry again." She touches his arm, sweet and swift, and Brendon smiles at her, relaxing a little.

"No harm done," he says, grinning, turning in to her a little bit. "Hey, you'll probably see more of him anyway, right? You and Spencer—"

"Oh," Haley says, and it's her turn to flush. She punches him lightly in the arm. "Shut up, it's not even—" and then she pauses and looks up and bursts into quiet giggles. "Seriously, Brendon, it's not really my fault I came to – to a conclusion like that, if looks could kill, you'd have a whole new mess to clean up all of a sudden."

"What?" Brendon says, startled. He looks over his shoulder and Ryan's scowling, leaning against the table with his arms folded.

"Can you hurry up?" Ryan calls, voice cold. "Believe it or not, I've got better things to do than hang around in this shithole all night."

"Um," Brendon says, and Haley gives him a look of wide-eyed innocence. In the end, for lack of anything else to do, Brendon says goodbye to their manager and clocks out, and tries not to push back or away from the careful hand Ryan puts on the small of his back, just for a moment, when they walk out of the store. 

There's chicken fingers waiting in the back seat of Ryan's car, and Brendon digs in happily, already starving after a relatively small shift. He offers them to Ryan but Ryan shakes his head – "I already ate mine," he says, and Brendon's pretty sure that the bag was full when he opened it, but he doesn't want to think about the connotations of that, so he doesn't.

He's pretty much polished off the whole thing by the time they get back to Ryan's place, and he's grateful suddenly for another reason that Ryan had it waiting: they spend too much time sitting in awkward silence, where Brendon wants to talk and knows that he shouldn't. Ryan has got the most perfect disdainful look of anyone else Brendon knows, and he hates leaving himself open to it. Eating at least gives him an excuse for not saying anything.

When they get inside, Brendon begins, "So, do you know what's on TV tonight—" and then Ryan kisses him, slow and easy, in the hallway. Brendon hums out something soft and agreeable and slips his hands under Ryan's shirt. Outside the night is cold, but Brendon thinks Ryan's place must have some sort of heating system, because he feels comfortable and warm, slipping his hands up to brush his fingers against Ryan's shoulder blades for a moment.

"I brought," Ryan starts, and breaks away, looking a little embarrassed. "I mean," he says, "If you wanted to play piano again tonight, and I liked listening—"

"What?" Brendon says, not understanding properly, and Ryan grabs his hand (probably, Brendon thinks a little foggily, probably he was aiming for Brendon's wrist, and missed) and tugs him into the living room, and Brendon laughs; there's a double bed mattress made up neatly on the floor.

"Well, this is familiar," he says, even though it looks much better and comfier than his own mattress, but Ryan doesn't say anything about that, just smiles crookedly and then pushes Brendon down onto it, stopping to tug his shirt off (oh, Brendon thinks, oh, _awesome_, and scrambles to do the same) before he drops to his knees and crawls over Brendon again, kisses him.

He's persistent but kind of slow about the whole thing, and it's just – _nice_, Brendon thinks, rolling his hips down lazily when Ryan twists slick fingers inside him. Brendon doesn't mind this, taking it a little bit slower than usual, and it's good to move and wrap his legs up around Ryan's hips, to rock together. He's a little tired after his shift, and he lets his eyes slip closed, breathes in raggedly and revels in their easy movement. _I'm__kind__of__used__to__you,__after__all,_he thinks meaninglessly.

"Hey," Ryan says, voice almost fierce, a contrast to this kind of sex, and Brendon opens his eyes. Ryan's looking down at him, eyes dark, gaze hard, and there's something so strange and intense and real about it, like Ryan's making a _claim_, that for a moment all Brendon can do is blink up at him, caught surprised in his gaze.

Then, he starts laughing.

"What?" Ryan hisses, in horrid fascination, stilling a little bit, and Brendon laughs harder.

"Sorry," he says, "Sorry, it's just – you're trying to have a _moment_," and then he can't keep going, he's laughing so hard. Ryan makes a huffy noise and moves as if he's going to pull out and Brendon immediately tightens his legs around Ryan and rocks back up against it. "Don't do that," he says, crossly. "You _finish_what you start, dickface."

"You're being stupid—" Ryan says, a little sulkily, and he sounds just immature enough for Brendon to start giggling again. "And I _wasn't_," he adds quickly, glaring.

"You were, you totally were," Brendon says, through his laughter. "You were like – oh let me stare down into your eyes grumpily – you're such a little _bitch_, Ross, seriously," and he pushes himself up clumsily, kisses the corner of Ryan's mouth, just a little sloppy. When he falls back down, Ryan is still squinting suspiciously at him but at least he's started fucking Brendon properly again, and Brendon gasps a little when Ryan moves just right, sends sparks darting up Brendon's spine.

"You're the bitch," Ryan says, "Bitch," and Brendon starts laughing again, comes somewhere between that and Ryan smiling down at him. 

The problem— and maybe it deserves capitals, Brendon isn't quite decided on that, and he's simply too content to care right now— the problem is that it could be easy to get used to this.

Ryan's house doesn't have a garden, not really. It's just a patch of grass fenced in by the neighboring houses, certainly not private, but it's enough to lie outside as they're studying for graduation, side by side on their stomachs. Occasionally, when Ryan shifts, the sleeve of his shirt brushes Brendon's arm. The sun is burning down on them, melting every hint of discomfort Brendon might have harbored about being here, now, with Ryan.

He closes his eyes and drops his forehead down on his crossed arms, inhaling the scent of grass and dry earth. 

He wakes up to a splash of cold water on his back. The first thing he sees when his eyes fly open, body shooting up, is Ryan grinning from behind a garden hose, the sun behind him dazzling Brendon for a moment. Then Ryan turns the water on again.

Brendon scrambles to his feet, his hair dripping, wet shirt stuck to his skin. "You'll pay for this, Ross," he shouts, and Ryan retreats a step or two, laughing even as Brendon launches himself forward, right into the spray of water.

They wrestle for no more than a few seconds. Ryan's at a clear disadvantage because he's laughing too hard, trying to evade Brendon and shield himself with the garden hose, but Brendon's so soaked through now that he doesn't care anymore, and besides, it's a warm day, spring almost here. Also, Ryan's strangely beautiful like this, open and carefree, his eyes bright. His nose is flushed in a dull pink that suggests he forgot to wear sunscreen.

Brendon wrestles the hose out of Ryan's hands and turns it around. The water's already turned to a misty spray, and Ryan immediately freezes when the first drops wet his hair, his face. Brendon whoops.

"Did you just _whoop_?" Ryan asks. He swallows water in the process.

Brendon adjusts the spray, less misty and more focused. "Got a problem with that?"

"Only little kids whoop," Ryan points out. Ironically, with his hair plastered to his head and his lashes stuck together, clothes clinging to his narrow body, he looks about twelve. For some stupid reason, Brendon's stomach still contracts at the sight.

"You totally know I'm not a little kid, though." Brendon points the spray down at Ryan's bare feet. Ryan jumps a step back, and Brendon laughs. "At least not where it counts."

Ryan's glare is not even a little bit impressive. "Small enough, where it counts."

"Not what you moaned last time I was fucking you," Brendon protests, and then he sees the triumphant way Ryan's eyes crinkle at the corners and directs the spray straight at Ryan's stupid grinning face while Ryan cracks up, holding his stomach and utterly unconcerned about the water raining down on him. God, Brendon _wants_.

He hasn't even really finished the thought when he's already moving forward, gripping the front of Ryan's shirt to drag him close, the hose forgotten on the ground, drenching the grass around them. Ryan laughs into Brendon's mouth and then he isn't laughing anymore because they're kissing. Something rushes in Brendon's ears when Ryan immediately parts his lips for Brendon's tongue, sinks into the kiss as if it's all that matters right here, right now.

Ryan tastes like water and home, and Brendon squeezes his eyes shut so tightly he sees sparks behind his lids. 

Ryan doesn't stay the night. He drops Brendon off, helps him haul his freshly washed clothes up the stairs and lingers for a moment, but just as Brendon's about to invite him to stay – not that they need this anymore – Ryan mutters something about his dad and cleaning the house and leaves with no more than an awkward, fleeting smile.

The silence that follows his departure rings in Brendon's ears.

He turns the TV on, just for something to fill his stupid little room that suddenly feels too big to hold only him. There are only inane shows with fake, glittering people, and after the second round of applause for some model making a wide-smiled statement about peace and harmony, he's tempted to throw a shoe at the TV, just to make it all stop.

Instead, he crawls off his bed to hit the power button and returns with his guitar. The strings feel better under his fingertips than he remembered, solid and cutting into his skin just a little. He aimlessly plucks at them for a while, humming to himself until a melody emerges. He breaks it off as soon as he recognizes just what his cheating hands have settled for.

No, he doesn't believe the impossible is possible tonight, or any other night, for that matter. One weekend doesn't change a damn thing. Because that's all it was – one weekend.

It's only nine at night. Brendon could read up some more about Chicago; he's still not quite sure about the application process.

Jesus fuck, he seriously can't wait to get out of this shithole. 

Mr. Wentz looks surprised when Ryan edges through the doorway, which is fair enough. Ryan doesn't have him as a teacher this year, has Beckett for English instead, which is good, but he misses Wentz's earnestness and his crazy assignments. He'd always been the teacher who liked Ryan most, too, seemed to see through all of Ryan's bullshit, and Ryan has a bit of grudging admiration for that.

Now, he blinks and smiles, says, "What can I help you with, Ryan?"

"Um," Ryan says. He goes and sits down in the chair Wentz waves a hand at, in front of Wentz's desk. He pulls one leg up over his knee, holds onto his shoe, drumming his fingers on the sole. "I guess – I've been thinking about colleges and stuff."

Wentz nods. "You freaking out?" he asks, kindly, and Ryan laughs uneasily.

"Maybe a little," he admits. He looks down at his lap, fingers twisting together, and mumbles, "My dad – I think I need a scholarship."

"Okay," Wentz agrees. "Your marks are good, and you're a talented student, Ryan. I'm sure you can get whatever you need."

Ryan breathes out, a little relieved at that. He'd been expecting and hoping, but it's good to hear some sort of confirmation. It's not the main thing, though, and he takes a breath and says, "You studied in Chicago, right?"

Wentz leans forward, looking curious. "Yeah, I grew up there," he says. "Why?"

"Someone mentioned – I heard that that might be a good place to study for, like, English Lit and writing and stuff," Ryan says. "I was thinking that maybe – I could maybe try and get in, but I don't know if I wouldn't be able to get a scholarship, or—"

"It'll be harder," Wentz interrupts honestly. "But it's possible, and – Chicago's a great town, a great place to study. I think you'd really like it there, fit right in." Ryan looks up, and Wentz's eyes are bright, he's smiling kind of irrepressibly. "I'll help you," he says. "And Mr. Beckett – you've got him for English, right? – he's from Chicago, too. We'll get you there if that's what you want."

"Oh," Ryan says, and lets out a shuddering breath. "Oh, okay. Thank you."

"No worries," Wentz says, grinning. "Let me find some stuff out, and then I'll get back to you by, uh, Friday, maybe? And you can look up things, too. Is there anywhere in particular you wanted to study?"

"Um," Ryan says. "I was thinking Northwestern." He tries very hard not to think about Brendon, casually excited in Ryan's kitchen, the look in Brendon's eyes when he'd talked about getting away. He has a horrible feeling that anyone could look at him and just – _tell_. "Anyway, I mean, I haven't made an absolute decision or anything."

"Of course," Wentz says. He stands up. "I'm glad you're considering your options though, Ryan. You don't want to get stuck in a rut, I think that's exactly the kind of thing that makes kids drop out of college."

"Okay," Ryan says, standing. "Okay, I – thanks. I'll see you on Friday?"

"Sure thing," Wentz says, still smiling, and Ryan leaves. 

He tells Spencer and Jon a few days later, sitting out on the steps of the school late one afternoon. Jon and Spencer had both had guidance counseling things, and Ryan had said he'd wait, because he didn't have anything better to do. When they come out, though, they're already talking about colleges and clutching pamphlets and looking determined and nervous and kind of excited, and Ryan looks at them and thinks that he doesn't ever, ever want to have to leave them behind, but he doesn't think that's possible, either. He thinks that things aren't as tenuous with Jon and Spencer as they are with – with other people. He thinks maybe they wouldn't ever let him leave properly.

He's not thinking straight, then, when Spencer says, "You're being uncharacteristically quiet, Ross."

"Yeah, join in the dread," Jon says cheerfully. "Have you decided where to yet?"

"Um," Ryan says absently, mind still far away, calculating costs and possibilities. "I'm thinking Northwestern." Then he realizes what he's just said and flushes pink, adds quickly, "Just, Mr. Wentz was saying there's some good English programs there, and it's got an awesome music scene, and it's _cold_, and it'll be away from… like, some distance from my dad. And stuff. Too, I mean."

"Oh," Jon says. He looks at Spencer and Ryan feels wretched, wants a little bit to say _you__should__just__come__too,__we__should__just__get__out__of__here,__all__of__us_. He opens his mouth to say something mindless, possibly something stupid enough to be just that, but Spencer gets there first.

"You know," Spencer says, face unreadable, "I heard Brendon Urie telling Mr. Stump he was going to Chicago."

Ryan thinks about clichés; he thinks about Jon saying, _we're__going__to__have__to__stick__around__for__another__hour__because__of__guidance__stuff,__do__you__wanna__wait?_and watching Brendon follow Mr. Way with a scowl, hands in his pockets, into his office, and knowing that Mr. Way was giving some guidance counseling of his own; he thinks about leaving Vegas, going somewhere new. As he watches, Brendon comes out the front doors of the school and jogs down the steps, ignoring them completely, face set.

Ryan stands up. "Yes," he says, and he can't help the grin that spreads over his face, wide and bright and infectious and stupidly, undeniably happy. "Yes, he is."

Jon looks incredulous and after a moment he laughs slightly, shocked and surprised but still kind, and Spencer's face twists. "Where are you going, Ryan?" he asks, and Ryan shakes his head.

"I have no fucking idea," he says. "I'm sorry, I'll see you guys later?"

Jon raises a hand and Spencer just looks at him, face blank but eyes straight and clear and fond, and Ryan thinks that he's being a little bit of an asshole but he'll make it up to them, he will, and for now he just races after Brendon across the pavement, catches up with him feeling slightly breathless, heart pounding.

"Hey," he says. "You catching the bus?"

Brendon narrows his eyes at Ryan. "Yeah," he says slowly, like he's waiting for the catch, and Ryan bites the inside of his cheek.

"Mind if I tag along?" he asks. "My car broke down again."

Brendon is silent for a long moment, not looking at Ryan. Then he says, offhandedly, "Your car's a fucking heap of shit," and Ryan laughs, walks close enough that their shoulders bump. Brendon doesn't move away. 

Brendon makes a list in his head of things that he doesn't like about Ryan Ross. It's a good list, and he's thinking about writing it down and pinning it up somewhere, like on the fridge, or the bathroom mirror, or Ryan's forehead. So far it goes like this: 

1. He is an asshole (see: years of high school, being an asshole, doing asshole-y things, etc. etc.).  
>2. He thinks he's smarter than he actually is, and also he sucks at bar chords.<br>3. He thinks it's okay to randomly approach Brendon after school one day, where any number of people could see Ryan ruining Brendon's reputation as someone who does not talk to assholes, and then follow him home, steal Brendon's laptop, and demand that Brendon make him pasta just because he happened to bring some cans of tomatoes by a week or so ago (for the record: it is not okay).  
>4. His hair is stupid.<p>

Brendon thinks that possibly the list requires some more work, but he's pretty satisfied with how it's going so far. He makes a satisfied noise to himself and takes the sauce off of the stove, pouring pasta into the boiling water. Possibly he should have gotten the pasta ready before he made the sauce, but Brendon's never been very talented at forethought.

"Why Chicago, anyway?" Ryan asks suddenly. "It's really far away." He's sitting in the corner of Brendon's crappy apartment, where he can steal Brendon's neighbor's wireless. Brendon tries to think about how tired and, by extension, how stupid he looks rather than how much he has been waiting for and dreading and wanting this conversation.

Brendon bites all of that down, because he hates it, because he has a _list_, and drawls instead, "That's kind of the point."

"Oh," Ryan says. "Alright, then."

"Also it's cold," Brendon adds, a little dreamily, remembering some of the reasons why he wants to go, why he'd decided before anything stupid Ryan Ross said or did mattered that much. "Can you imagine that? Real _cold_. Snow at Christmas. It'll be awesome."

"Okay," Ryan says, and goes back to the computer.

That feels a little bit too easy, and Brendon gets a bit bored when Ryan's sitting in his apartment and not paying attention to him (seriously, Brendon hasn't even gotten to make out yet, this afternoon has been fucking ridiculous). He sneaks up around Ryan, trying to slip behind him, and sing-songs, "What are you _doing_?"

Ryan slams the top of the laptop shut and Brendon laughs at him, wonders with vague delight if maybe Ryan's watching porn or something equally ridiculous. Maybe he's writing emails. Maybe he's writing emails to a girl. Brendon frowns, and leans forward, opens it back up. It's _his_laptop.

He squints at the screen, throat suddenly tight. "Northwestern?" he says, a little uncertainly.

Ryan flushes bright red; Brendon watches with absent interest. "Mr. Wentz is from Chicago," he says. "He said it's a good town."

"Oh, did he," Brendon says.

Ryan says, "It looks like it might have some good English programs."

Brendon swallows hard, and then he sits down behind Ryan, hooks his chin over Ryan's shoulder with his legs bracketing Ryan's hips. He positions the screen so they can both see it and mumbles, "Okay, let's check it out."

After a little while, Ryan whispers, "Can I stay here tonight?" and Brendon breathes out, tilts his face down into Ryan's hair. 

Three days. Ryan waits three days for the perfect moment, but it never comes, and he actually knows it never will come, knows that there are no perfect moments anymore with his father. Just slightly more sober ones, although even those have decreased in frequency. Ryan's father doesn't even try to hide the empty bottles anymore.

Ryan does not wonder how long his grandmother will continue to pay his father's expenses. At least the house belongs to his father.

It's three days until Ryan gives up waiting for the perfect moment, and just stops on his way up the stairs at the sight of his father hunched over the kitchen table. The stench of cheap wine is hard to miss.

"Dad?"

His father half-turns in the chair, upper body twisted at an awkward angle. He's frowning, supporting himself on the chair's backrest.

Ryan decides to take that as encouragement. He takes a step further into the kitchen and leans against the doorframe, a careful distance away. "I've been thinking. 'bout college."

"Need me to sign your application for UNLV?" Ryan's father is barely slurring his words, but his eyes are unfocused. The light bulb above the table paints his skin a sickly shade of grey. "Engineering will be good for you. Some discipline."

"No, I… The applications don't need to be signed."

"Then what?"

Ryan squares his shoulders. His chest aches from the smells. "I don't think I want to go to UNLV. Chicago is… My English teacher, Pete Wentz, he said they have a good English program."

"English?" Ryan's father sounds uncomprehending.

Ryan draws another breath. "I'd like to get a degree in English. In Chicago."

"I'm not paying for some… some fucking pansy degree in English." His father's hand tightens on the chair's backrest, the other blindly groping for a glass that's mostly empty. The remaining wine is of a red so dark it looks purple. "You're going to UNVL. 'm not wasting good money so my son can go off to some city and study unemployment."

Usually, Ryan's control over his tongue is pretty good around his father. Usually.

He pushes away from the doorframe, his forehead and chest feeling tight, his body too heavy. "Yeah, because you'd know about unemployment, wouldn't you?"

His father's frown darkens. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Ryan digs his nails into his palms and gets the fuck out. 

It's half past one in the morning when Brendon's phone rings. He knows it only because, even freshly woken, he had the presence of mind to check the time before accepting Ryan's call. Who else would be calling him at this hour, anyway?

(Who else would be calling him, period.)

"This better be good," Brendon says instead of a greeting.

For a moment, Ryan doesn't reply. Then his voices comes through, tired and rough. "I'm downstairs. C'mon."

Brendon props himself up on his stomach. The room is hazy, all contours soft until he puts on his glasses, frowning at the wall. "Why?"

"Going for a drive."

Ryan's voice still has that tired, rough quality, and it's sad, Brendon's such a pushover, but he barely hesitates for a second before he sighs, mumbles, "'kay."

Ryan ends the call. Brendon lies motionless, just long enough to breathe out harshly, once. Then he fumbles around for his jeans and a shirt, pulling a hoodie over them. It's not exactly clean anymore, but Brendon figures that if Ryan wakes him in the middle of the night, when they got school bright and early tomorrow, he can't expect clean clothes.

He doesn't bother lacing up his sneakers before locking the door and stumbling down the stairs. His brain feels mostly awake, but his body is lagging behind, it seems.

Ryan is outside, leaning against his car with the light of a streetlamp glinting on his shoulders. He's wearing only a sleeveless top, yet he doesn't appear to be cold. Brendon pauses to watch Ryan lift a cigarette to his mouth. The tip glows orange when Ryan sucks on the end, and Brendon's stomach feels tight with the thought that Ryan, there aren't that many things Brendon knows about him, or maybe there are quite a few, but either way, Ryan only smokes when he's upset.

Ryan smoked the day they ran into Brendon's dad, too. Brendon ducks his head and lets the door fall shut behind himself. "What the fuck?" he says, a little groggily.

Finally, Ryan turns his head to look at him. He stares for a moment, face unreadable, and then he drops the cigarette and stumps it out with the heel of his sneaker.

"Get in."

Brendon blinks at him, tries to find some sort of world wherein this could possibly make sense, Ryan staring at him under the glow of the flickering streetlight. He's still asleep, though, and he doesn't think that a world like that even _exists_, anyway, so he rubs his eyes, runs his hands through his hair and says, "No, seriously, what the fuck?"

"Brendon," Ryan says, "You're already down here. Just get in the car."

Brendon stares for a second longer. Then he shrugs and says, "Freak." He gets in and pulls on the seatbelt and Ryan lingers outside for a moment longer under the lamp. Brendon wants to tell him to put a goddamn sweater on, it's not even spring, yet, and there's a cold wind, but after a moment Ryan exhales sharply and walks around, gets into the driver's seat.

He doesn't talk, just sets his car in a direction out of the city, jaw clenched, fingers white around the steering wheel. After three failed starts to a conversation, Brendon gives up and rests his head back, kicks his feet up on the dashboard. He looks out the window and watches the streetlights flash by, and he must doze off for a while, because when he wakes up they're on the highway, and Ryan's crappy car is going fast enough that Brendon thinks for a stupid, muzzy moment that they're flying.

"Where are we going?" he asks eventually, and Ryan turns his head to look at him. He looks furious, but Brendon's pretty sure it's not directed at him.

"Don't know," Ryan says shortly. "Out of the city. Somewhere."

"Okay," Brendon says. After a moment, he asks, "You sure your car won't, like, die on us?"

"It'll be fine," Ryan says.

Brendon shrugs, and then reaches out and turns the tape deck on (a _tape_deck, seriously, this car is ancient), and tries not to laugh when Morrissey croons _I__want__to__see__people__and__I__want__to__see__light_. Ryan slants a look at him and then reaches out, turns the power off with a weird viciousness to his movement.

"Hey," Brendon says, surprised, and when Ryan doesn't say anything, he reaches out hesitantly and touches Ryan's shoulder. Ryan shrugs him off, overly aggressive, and Brendon flushes with embarrassment and anger. "Okay," he snaps, "What the _fuck_is your problem?"

"Nothing," Ryan says.

"Oh, sure, whatever," Brendon says, folding his arms. "Seriously, Ross, I'm not going to indulge your fucking weirdass whims—"

"That's a cool word," Ryan says snidely, and Brendon punches him in the arm, hard, grinning in satisfaction when Ryan hisses and takes one hand off the steering wheel to rub it.

"What's going on?" Brendon asks.

Ryan meets his eyes in the rear view mirror and says, defiantly, "Nothing, okay. Nothing is going on. I just had a fight with my dad, and I don't want to – I want to get out of here."

"Oh," Brendon says. "What was the fight about?"

Ryan looks mulish. "College," he mumbles. "He wants me to go to UNLV."

Brendon taps his fingers on the armrest, gazes out the window. "Did you tell him about Chicago?"

"Yeah," Ryan says, and Brendon breathes out. He looks at Ryan, instead; Ryan's profile looks different in this light, silhouetted, proud and furious. He says, "Whatever, he's just an asshole, I don't even give a shit," and Brendon nods.

"Okay," he says, and sinks back into his seat.

Ryan doesn't get any more talkative, and after a while Brendon falls asleep. He has weird, vivid dreams, the rumbling of the road beneath them and the wheeze of Ryan's crappy engine pervasive all through them, and they're the kind he won't remember when he wakes up, full of shadowy figures like the detective films his dad likes. At some point he dreams that he's smoking on the Golden Gate Bridge, and then someone shoots him, and he wakes up with a start.

It's around six AM, he'd guess, and Ryan looks exhausted. "Sorry," he says, and his voice is wrecked, "some car backfired, go back to sleep."

They're still driving, but they're not on the highway anymore. Brendon vaguely recognizes the road from a family trip.

"Alright, pull the fuck over," Brendon says. Ryan looks at him, mouth open, but there must be something on Brendon's face because he snaps it shut and, almost meekly, does as he's told.

"Seriously, Ross," he starts. "D'you think you could grow up at some stage? So your dad won't help you? So fucking what? You let him stop you from doing what you want and you're so much fucking weaker than I thought you were."

Ryan's staring at him, but Brendon plows on, furious, hands clenched in his lap. "If you want everything to be easy all the fucking time then you're an idiot, but okay, whatever, so your dad won't help you out, so why don't you just stop? Just fucking - go to college here or don't go at all, get some shitty office job and hope you can secretly write some incredible breakthrough novel at night, fucking cry because you have to work for something if you want it."

"Brendon," Ryan says, soft. Brendon ignores him.

"Things are hard," he tells him, something furious and boiling in his chest, his stomach. "What d'you expect? Things were always gonna be hard. But I don't wanna be around if you have to chuck a tantrum every time something doesn't work out perfect for you. And if this is the way it's going to be from now on, then fucking fine, but I thought you were stronger than that."

He has maybe a split second of warning before Ryan's unbuckled his seatbelt and practically vaulted into Brendon's lap, shoving their mouths together awkward and hard, teeth banging, noses getting in the way, and Brendon curls his fingers in Ryan's hair tight enough to be painful, tugs hard. For a while everything is fierce and hot and breathless, and then Ryan just sags and turns his face into Brendon's neck and Brendon closes his eyes.

"You've got to work more," he says, "and spend less on new clothes when you feel like them. You've got some money saved, right? You should call your mom, maybe, I know you don't want to, but she might have residual guilt or whatever and it's worth a try."

"'Kay," Ryan says.

"Good," Brendon tells him. "Now get off me and I'll drive us back." 

Ryan wakes up to Brendon shaking his shoulder gently, saying, voice almost kind compared to his previous rant, "Hey, Ross, c'mon."

"What?" Ryan says, groggily, and looks up at Brendon's building. "... we should go to school."

"Yeah, I don't think that's happening," Brendon says. He gets out of the car and locks his door, and Ryan's still sleepy and barely awake, so before he can make himself move Brendon's opening his door and unbuckling his seatbelt, tugging him out. _You're__an__idiot_, Ryan thinks, _you're__an__idiot__and__something's__gone__so,__so__wrong__here_, but he leans in all the same and breathes out against Brendon's collarbone, brushing his nose up along the line of Brendon's jaw.

"It's like. The last semester," he mumbles. "It's important."

"Mental health day," Brendon says, decisively. "Come on. My bed isn't much but it's better than the goddamn car."

He's still half-asleep when they go up the stairs, enough that he can't really find the discipline to stop himself from leaning on Brendon, letting Brendon guide him up the stairs. He's barely awake enough to be aware of Brendon pushing him down onto the bed, but he starts when Brendon moves away, and makes a soft noise of complaint in his throat. It would be embarrassing, but he's too drowsy to care right now, so he doesn't.

"I'm just closing the door and getting you out of your clothes," Brendon says softly. "I wasn't going to leave."

Ryan cracks one eye open. "Getting me out of my clothes?" he repeats, interrupted by a yawn halfway through.

Brendon laughs at him, but it's not in a mean way, and that makes worry hum in Ryan's bones, low and easy to ignore. "Later, Ross. I'm not that kinky."

Ryan nods and closes his eyes. He doesn't sleep, though, not until he feels the mattress dip under Brendon's weight, and even then he lies awake for a while, can't stop adding things up in his head, what he can and can't get away with right now. He's pretty sure that Brendon has shown enough quiet, weird care in the past few hours for Ryan to have a free pass.

Keeping that in mind, he makes a small, grumpy sound and reaches out for Brendon, curling his fingers in the sleeve of Brendon's t-shirt and tugging him over. Brendon moves slowly, cautiously, and Ryan says, voice thick and rusty, "S'cold," and pulls the blankets up over them.

It's actually a mild spring day, but Brendon doesn't call him on it, just says, voice so soft Ryan almost can't hear him, "Yeah. Yeah, okay. Okay."

This time, nobody elbows anybody upon waking up all tangled together. 

It turns out, to Brendon's vague astonishment, that when Ryan decides he's going to work for something, he actually _does_it. Ryan stays at Brendon's that day until around five in the afternoon, when he heads home with a mumbled thanks at the door. The next day, Brendon passes the library at lunch only to see, through the glass doors, Ryan with his head bent over a book, taking notes with one hand, and Spencer and Jon talking and looking a little bored next to him.

That is, apparently, it. Ryan launches into studying with a weird dedication, to the extent that when Brendon texts him, unsure, and asks him if he wants to come over Saturday night, Ryan shows up with textbooks in his bag, and barely gives Brendon time to enjoy the afterglow before he's pulling out Calc problems and demanding that Brendon help him make sense of them.

It sets the theme for the semester. Ryan is suddenly working all the time, and Brendon feels the – steadily and frighteningly more dormant – part of him that gets furious just _looking_at Ryan kick into gear, and starts working, too, determined to beat Ryan in every class he can. They compare grades and alternately gloat and scowl at the differing marks (Brendon is currently kicking Ryan's ass in Biology, but he can't get near Ryan's consistent full marks in English). Sometimes, if Brendon's not being careful, he starts grinning halfway through such conversations. Generally, though, he manages to restrain himself, and if he's on top of his game, he finds it easy enough to get Ryan so angry that he turns slightly pink in the cheek and storms out a lot.

Mostly, though, it's a drop back again to hardly seeing Ryan, encounters pushed down to one night of the weekend (and never a full day) or occasional trips back to his place after school. It's easy to be relieved. He has a lot of schoolwork, studying or homework, he's filling out applications for college and scholarships all over the place and practicing piano with Mr. Stump nearly every lunchtime to get ready for the auditions, and then there's the Smoothie Hut on top of that. He really doesn't have time for a fuckbuddy along with that. It's a good thing, he knows, and doesn't let himself think about how the best night's sleep he gets every week is the one with Ryan snuffling quietly into the pillow next to him, sprawled out lazily across the mattress. They've stopped complaining and arguing over whose fault it is if they wake up draped over each other, Brendon's nose pressed to the hollow of Ryan's throat, Ryan's arms curled around him. Brendon doesn't think about that, either.

He's got other stuff to worry about, college and grades and getting out of Vegas, and one day it all kind of comes to a head when Brendon turns up to English and Mr. Beckett asks for the essays that are due that day. Brendon sits there frozen in his seat, stomach turning to stone. He doesn't have the essay. He hasn't even written it yet, doesn't think he's got much beyond a few scribbled notes in the back of his book. He didn't mean to forget, he just – life's been so hectic, but he knows it isn't an excuse he can give, so when Beckett gets to his desk, he just shakes his head and stares miserably at the tabletop.

Beckett lingers for a moment, looking disappointed. "That's bad luck, Brendon," he says quietly. "I have to fail you. It's too late in the year for second chances."

"I know," Brendon mumbles. He glances up quickly, but Ryan and Jon are whispering and laughing about something with their heads bent together, and he thanks fuck at least that he's escaped their notice. Beckett moves on.

Brendon tries to turn his head around the concept of a 0 grade in his class average. English isn't his best subject but mostly he works hard at it, harder than he ever has to work for science or music. It's been easier since Ryan will occasionally grudgingly lend him his notes, and with that and him doing his best, he's been going pretty well on his grades. A complete fail in there, though, fucks them up so much that some of the scholarships Brendon _needs_are just, they're not going to happen, not with a high C/low B in English (and that's if he gets brilliant marks for the rest of the year). There's not a chance.

He twists his fingers together under the desk, watching his knuckles turn white. There's nothing to do, he knows, he may as well accept it and just move on, but – he's tired, and frustrated, and now this, and he's going to end up stuck in Vegas, he knows it, in a hairdressing apprenticeship or not even that, working for the rest of his life at Smoothie Hut. Something hitches in his throat and he's never been so glad for the bell ringing; he gets his stuff together somehow and stumbles blindly out of the class, heading in the opposite direction to everyone else down the corridor.

He's going to miss his Chemistry class, but he can't bring himself to care about that, now, and he's pretty sure that he wouldn't be able to last through it, anyway. Instead, he goes to the boys' bathroom near the Drama block, the one that nobody ever uses, and lets the door swing shut behind him. For a moment he just stands, breathing raggedly in the middle of the brightly lit, white space, and then he dumps his bag on the floor and crawls on his hands and knees between two sinks, hunching himself down until he can sit with his knees pulled up to his chest, tucked under and between the two sinks.

For a moment he just breathes in huge, gulping breaths, but then he gives up on postponing the inevitable and cries; stupid, frustrating sobs, the kind that hurt his chest and make his face go all red and gross-looking, it being so obvious what he's doing, even if it wasn't for the tears smearing their way down his face.

It's then, of course, because Brendon's life is never easy, that the door open, and Brendon looks up and Ryan's standing there. Brendon's too, too tired, he can't think of what to say or do, so he just stutters out, "Go away, fucking, leave me alone," and Ryan stares.

After an interminable minute Ryan moves, but he doesn't go away, not this time. Instead he moves across the floor and elbows Brendon's side until he can crawl in next to him, both of them too big to fit properly under the sinks, and so Ryan puts his legs over Brendon's lap and his chin on Brendon's shoulder. He rests his forehead against Brendon's neck and just sits there, just breathes, until Brendon lets out another helpless, rough sob, and shifts closer to Ryan, hands clenched in the back of Ryan's shirt, and Ryan lets him move until Brendon's face is pressed against Ryan's shirt, and then he lets Brendon cry himself out.

Finally Brendon sits still, breathing in harsh gulps but not crying anymore, at least, and he manages to say, "Beckett failed me. I forgot to do that essay."

Ryan shrugs; Brendon's still got his eyes closed, the material of Ryan's shirt rough against his face, but he can feel the movement. "Well," Ryan says in his low, unreadable voice, "You're a fucking idiot," but he keeps his arm around Brendon's shoulders, soothing. A little while later, he asks, "You want me to take you home?"

"No," Brendon says, because he kind of feels together enough to be able to go to the rest of the day, and even to work that afternoon. After his shift, though, he finds Ryan waiting outside with his car again (reading over the English text in the front seat, the nerd), and they go back to Brendon's place and Brendon fucks Ryan. Ryan even waits until after they've both come before he starts laughing at Brendon's misfortune with schoolwork and scholarships and stuff ("Seriously, trust you, after you give me that big fucking lecture and then you just, what, _forget_to write something?"). It's okay, though. Brendon punches him a little harder than is completely necessary in the arm, and Ryan stays the night, even though it's only Wednesday.

The next morning they have English again, and Beckett asks Brendon briefly at the beginning of the class to stay behind. Brendon does so, wondering, until all the other students have left. Then he approaches Beckett's desk, and Beckett smiles up at him, and tells him that after speaking to another student and in light of Brendon's continuing home situation he's willing to let Brendon have until Monday to hand up the essay.

Brendon nods and smiles with gratitude and keeps his head down. He doesn't say anything to anyone else, but that Saturday night he spends two and a half hours going through things in Biology and Calculus with Ryan, until he's too tired to do much but lie back and let Ryan fuck him afterwards, running his fingers absently down the line of Ryan's spine, both of them still carrying on half of a conversation in between slow gasps and the quiet humming of Brendon's fridge. 

Haley's nice enough to let Brendon take advantage of the lull they always get shortly before closing. She wipes down the counter and tables while he's perched on a bar stool, going through those rough notes he already put together for Beckett's essay. They're even rougher than he remembered. He sighs loudly and puts his elbows on the counter, his chin on his hands. "On a scale of one to ten," he asks without turning around. "How embarrassing would it be to still work here ten years from now?"

"Nine." Haley's reply is followed up by the jingling door bell.

Brendon twists around on his stool and repeats, "Nine?" before he catches sight of their new customers.

"Ten is reserved for McDonald's and Burger King. At least here we get some vitamins out of it." Haley lifts her rag in a vague gesture, giving him a quick grin before she turns her head. Her polite smile changes to a real one when she recognizes Ryan and Spencer. "Hey! We were just talking about plans for the future."

"Burger King and McDonald's?" Ryan's frowning. Next to him, Spencer is giving Haley one of those big, happy smiles, and Brendon is sure it would take almost nothing, just a small, nasty remark on his part to wipe that smile right off Spencer's face, but... Spencer's been kind of okay to him recently. Jon, too. In fact, Jon even nodded and grinned at Brendon when they passed each other in the hallway this morning. It doesn't necessarily mean anything.

"Free McFlurries day in, day out," Brendon tells Ryan.

Ryan's frown doesn't waver. "You're not gonna work shit places much longer."

Brendon puts his pen down, tilting his head. Their eyes meet for a moment, and then Spencer elbows Ryan, snorting. "So, that's all very touching and I don't mean to break the mood—"

"Shut up," Ryan interrupts.

Spencer laughs. Haley, looking from Ryan to Brendon, appears to be biting the inside of her cheek, and for no reason whatsoever, Brendon feels the back of his neck flush hotly. 

Ryan politely offers Haley a ride, dropping her off first, then Spencer, and then it's only the two of them in the car. The stereo still isn't working. Since Brendon is sure that if he opens his mouth, he'll start asking stupid questions he doesn't really want answered, he grips the side of his seat and stares out of the window, backpack on his thighs.

There's no free parking space directly in front of Brendon's building. Ryan drives straight on until the next corner, navigating into a space big enough to fit two cars with a muttered curse and some impressive work on the steering wheel. Against his will, Brendon finds himself smiling.

When Ryan throttles the engine, silence encompasses them. Brendon glances over to find Ryan already watching him. The corners of Ryan's mouth turn up. "Come on, then."

_Are__you__going__to__walk__me__to__my__door?  
><em>  
>It almost, very nearly slips out before Brendon can stop it. He grits his teeth and waits another moment before he pushes his own door open, grabbing his backpack before he slams the door closed. Ryan's already standing on the sidewalk, locking the car. He brought his backpack, too. The streetlamp's light paints his face in a strange shade of orange.<p>

Brendon exhales carefully and sets off, not looking back to see if Ryan's following. He is, though.

"You know I have to do that essay for Beckett," Brendon tells the sidewalk. It lies deserted before them, just a few more steps to Brendon's house.

"Wow, you remember?" Ryan's tone is dry, but when Brendon glances over, there's a small smile tugging at Ryan's lips.

"Don't be an ass," Brendon says. He sounds too fond, frighteningly so, and bites down on the inside of his cheek a moment after the words are out.

Ryan laughs, sharp and quick. They walk the last few steps to the door in silence. When Brendon thrusts they key into the lock, Ryan suddenly crowds him against the flat surface of the door, pressing to his back. Brendon stills, waiting. "So how about," Ryan begins, breath tickling Brendon's cheek, "an all-night study session? I brought my chemistry and math stuff."

Smoothly, Ryan steps back. Brendon exhales, and when Ryan laughs, softly, without even a hint of meanness to the sound, Brendon finds he doesn't mind all that much. 

By the time Brendon has filled an additional page of his notebook with notes and written the first two pages of his essay, Ryan isn't even pretending to study anymore. His book is still open in front of him, but he's holding his head up with one fist, lids at half-mast. After the fourth yawn Ryan suppresses in less than two minutes, Brendon sighs impatiently. "Go to bed, Ross. You're making me tired." He doesn't look up.

Ryan snorts and sinks lower in his creaking chair.

"Seriously." Brendon types _Denial__is__part__of__the__game__they__play_ before he chances a glance at Ryan. Another glance. He's been sneaking a lot of them over the course of the night, and it's not even two in the morning yet. Brendon still has another three pages to go. "You're totally useless like this. It's not like you'll remember any of that tomorrow."

"Well, maybe if you had some _decent_ coffee instead of that instant powder shit," Ryan complains, not for the first time. "Maybe that'd help." He lifts his head off his fist and squints up at the bare light bulb dangling above the table.

"Bring your own fucking coffee, if you want some." Brendon hits the enter key and starts a new paragraph. _In__the__social__circles__they__move__in,__there__is__no__room__to__admit__to__ignorance,__because__that__would__be__admitting__to__weakness.__There__are__rules.__Virginia__Woolf__is__like__a__prop,__in__this__context._

"What, so you can throw it away at the first chance?" Ryan asks.

Brendon looks up from the screen. His eyes were burning from staring at the display anyway, and maybe it's the near-black of the sky outside the window, or maybe it's the eerie quiet of night that surrounds them. Either way, when Brendon says, "Bring your stupid coffee, Ross. I swear I won't touch it," it's more honest than he intended.

For a long moment, Ryan merely blinks at him, face blank. Then he pushes himself to his feet, staggering a step before he straightens and finds his balance. Hands still poised above the keyboard, Brendon watches as Ryan grabs the apartment key off the fridge. Something in Brendon's chest feels heavy.

Ryan pauses at the door, one hand already on the knob. "Going out for coffee," he says, and then he's gone. 

The Starbucks is deserted at this hour; bright lights and a drooping employee behind the counter the only proof that it's not actually closed. Ryan studies the menu for a long minute even though he already knows what he wants.

"Yeah?" the barista asks eventually.

"A cappuccino, grande," Ryan says. "And." He takes a deep breath. "A vanilla latte, venti, whole milk, extra cream and caramel syrup. Please."

Inexplicably, he is waiting for the barista to comment his order. Instead, the guy just nods tiredly and drags his body over to the coffee machine. Ryan props both elbows on the counter and waits with his heart hammering stupidly high in his throat. 

Brendon's still sitting just where Ryan left him, looking as if he hasn't moved an inch. He looks up sharply when Ryan comes back in, gaze moving from Ryan's face down to the two cardboard cups in Ryan's hands. Ryan kicks the apartment door shut with his hip, and then he lingers in place, shifting the cardboard cups. They're warm against his palms.

"You went to _Starbucks_?" Brendon asks.

"What's wrong with Starbucks?" Ryan is annoyed at the defensive note in his voice. It's not like he has to defend his actions to Brendon.

"That they charge you a shitload of money," Brendon says. "And, like, I thought you wanted to save up something for college?" Despite the words, Ryan doesn't miss Brendon's quick, hopeful glance at Ryan's hands, or the way Brendon seems to inhale the smell of hot coffee that's rising from the cups.

Ryan takes a step forward and smiles tentatively. "I brought you a vanilla latte."

Brendon's answering smile doesn't break out immediately, but when it does, it takes up his entire face. "Extra cream?"

Ryan nods. "And caramel syrup."

"Oh," Brendon says. "Well, I guess that's alright then." Ryan shakes his head, rolling his eyes, and Brendon laughs, reaches out for his cup. "Thanks," Brendon says, and it sounds like it's automatic. Ryan nods.

"How's the essay going?" he asks.

"Almost there," Brendon says. He takes the lid off the cup and starts eating the cream off the top with a finger. Ryan watches in revolted fascination. It's not even _hot_. Brendon's a Neanderthal, and Ryan tells him so.

"I'm pretty sure Neanderthals didn't have Starbucks," Brendon says, but he gets up and fetches a teaspoon from a drawer, uses that instead. He has a little bit of cream caught on the corner of his mouth – when Ryan points it out, he manages a tired looking leer as he licks it off, but mostly he just looks so exhausted that Ryan wouldn't be that surprised if he fell asleep in his coffee.

"What's 'almost there', anyway?" Ryan asks, and Brendon yawns, turning back to his laptop.

"I'm on the conclusion," he says. "And then, I dunno, I'll read it over and check it's not too awful. And then _sleep_."

"Alright," Ryan says. He sits down opposite from Brendon and pillows his head on his arms, letting his thoughts drift, occasionally rousing himself enough to drink from his coffee before it goes cold.

Brendon frowns at the screen, looking as though he's as much wrestling with the problem of technology and words in general as he is with concepts from the book he's writing about. After a little while Ryan stops thinking about anything in particular and just watches Brendon work, the tiny creases in his forehead, the dark smudges under his eyes. Ryan hopes distantly that Brendon's one of those people who, when tired enough, can have coffee before bed and still sleep well. It would suck if he finished and still couldn't get any sleep.

"It's really hard to work with you staring at me," Brendon murmurs eventually, without looking up.

Ryan should have a witty or cutting remark on the edge of his tongue. It's three in the morning, though, and he's been up since six. He says, "Deal," and doesn't look away, and Brendon doesn't respond, and he still doesn't look up, but the corner of his mouth twitches in a smile. Ryan thinks that it's good that he didn't look away; he doesn't like missing it when Brendon smiles at him.

It's another half hour before Brendon finally pushes back and declares that he's finished – he got caught up for a while revising part of the middle. "Bed," Brendon sings, voice slurring a little.

Ryan gets up and walks around the table, pushes Brendon off the chair. "Hang on," he says, and goes through the essay three times, correcting it where he can. It's actually pretty good, but Brendon's sentence structure is ridiculously convoluted, and Ryan cuts it down to normal size, helps Brendon's paragraphs get some topic sentences that make it seem like he's not just rambling into the ether. Brendon hangs around his shoulder, and doesn't say anything.

When he's done, he holds up a hand and Brendon takes it, leads him to the mattress in the floor. Ryan has enough presence of mind to take off his jeans before he curls into the bed, but he's cold for a while, teeth chattering, until Brendon tucks their legs together, slides his arm over Ryan's chest.

"Go to sleep," he says, and Ryan hums something agreeable, tucks his nose into the hollow of Brendon's throat.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Part**____**9/9**_  
>Continued from <span>here<span>. 

It gets easier. Ryan finds new patterns to fall into, new rules that he can live by. They're allowed to be agreeable and – very, very occasionally – friendly to each other when they're alone if they're rude at school. They can skip sex sometimes in favour of sleeping half curled together as long as some kisses still have a bite to them. School itself is hard, but it gets easier with Brendon going over his science requirements – _why_ did he take Biology, why, why – and if he keeps reading Brendon's English essays, then it can be an exchange like everything else is. Mutually beneficial, Ryan tells Spencer and Jon, and then folds his arms and glares in the face of their raised eyebrows.

(Actually, Spencer and Jon aren't being very helpful at all. Spencer has picked up a bad habit of grinning at Brendon in the hallways sometimes when they pass each other, and Ryan's just glad Brendon doesn't do anything but look down and pretend he hasn't seen. One afternoon, though, Ryan gets to Biology a little late and finds Jon turned around on his chair, talking to a very confused looking Brendon. Ryan has _patterns_, he has rules. Sometimes he regrets telling Spencer and Jon at all. Probably if they had found out on their own, they would have been so pissed that they would have spent most of their time bitching to each other about what an asshole Ryan was for not telling them, rather than coming up with strange plots and theories of their own that they refuse to share.)

Some days, though, it's harder to follow any kind of rule at all.

"I'm on the shortlist," is all Ryan can manage to say when he spills through the door. Brendon's sitting cross-legged on his mattress playing guitar, and he looks up and arches an eyebrow at Ryan. Ryan's cheeks turn slightly pink, and Brendon laughs, soft and not quite mocking. He's still playing guitar, the refrain of _Anna__Begins_in a wistful kind of way.

"What was that, Ross?" he asks, and Ryan takes a breath and forces himself to calm down, closing the door behind him and dropping his bag on the floor. He walks across to Brendon and sprawls out beside him, not quite close enough to touch.

"The college scholarship committee," Ryan tells him. "They contacted Wentz for a reference. I'm on the shortlist."

"I guess all those years of kissing his ass must finally be coming in useful," Brendon says.

"_Brendon_." Ryan tries not to glare. The excitement fluttering in his stomach is slowly threatening to die in the face of Brendon's disinterest. "You're not listening."

"Yeah, I am. Don't get too excited yet. It's just the shortlist." Brendon punctuates it with a roll of his eyes, but he switches song abruptly, to something that Ryan vaguely recognizes, bright and sweet and welcome.

Later, he will ask Jon and Spencer what it is, humming the melody. "I'm sure I recognize it," he says.

Jon and Spencer stare in obvious disbelief. "You call yourself a musician?" Jon finally asks.

Ryan bristles and opens his mouth, but Spencer gets there first. "Point," he says. "It's The Beatles, Ryan. Haven't you heard it before?"

"Maybe," Ryan says. Jon opens his mouth and sings, _little__darling,__it's__been__a__long,__cold,__lonely__winter,__little__darling,__it__feels__like__years__since__you've__been__here_ and Ryan remembers the name of the song, tries to ignore the way his heart is pounding. "Yeah," he says. "I have heard it." 

By the time Brendon's shift manager locks up, there's still no trace of Ryan even though he promised to pick Brendon up. Gabriella lingers at the back door for a moment, looking as if she's about to inquire whether Brendon is all right, whether someone's coming for him, and he remembers why he likes her.

"A friend should be here to pick me up any minute," Brendon tells her, before she can offer him a ride.

"Oh, good." She smiles at him. A strain about her eyes makes him wonder if she suspects he might be lying, but after another glance at his face, she wishes him a good night and turns in the direction of her car. Brendon leaves for the opposite end of the back alley, kicking at a dirty trashcan on his way to the main road.

He could take a bus, sure. He used to take a bus all the time, never thought twice about the thirty minutes it took to get to his apartment when it's only a ten-minutes ride with Ryan's car. Where is Ryan, anyway? His shift at the clothing store must have ended almost an hour ago.

The fact that he knows Ryan's schedule almost as well as he knows his own makes Brendon frown.

He glances up and down the silent road. Then he turns away to walk to the bus station. Since he didn't feel as if he had to hurry when he finished work, chances are he already missed the bus leaving at a quarter to, and the next one won't be by for another half hour. For good measure, Brendon aims another kick at a wall. It only results in making his toes sting while the wall appears entirely unmoved.

Stupid fucking thing.

Brendon doesn't turn around at the sound of a car on the otherwise deserted road. It approaches, going at a slow pace, while he continues walking briskly towards the bus station even though he'd recognize the telltale stuttering of that engine just about anywhere. Ryan hits the gas, enough to overtake Brendon by a few steps, before he pulls up beside him.

Brendon stops when Ryan leans over to push the passenger door open for him, followed by a quick, almost happy-sounding, "Brendon, hi. Come on."

"You're late." Brendon feels stupid, standing there with his hands in his pockets. He makes up for it with a glare.

"Sorry, yeah." Still Ryan is smiling. "My manager let me lock up today, told me to drop the key off at his house on my way home."

Oh. That's… good. A vote of confidence, definitely. Despite himself, Brendon feels his irritation dissipate, melting away just like that, just because Ryan's smiling and happy and hopeful.

He gets in the car. Ryan's hand settles warm and high on his thigh when Ryan leans over, and Brendon resists only for a moment before he opens his mouth under Ryan's kiss. 

Brendon returns from the bathroom to find Ryan tapping away on his cell phone, frown visible only in the dim glow of the display. For a short, horrible second, Brendon fights the urge to say something like, "Texting your other boyfriend?"

Fortunately, it passes soon enough.

He sprawls on his stomach beside Ryan, closing his eyes while Ryan continues tapping. It doesn't take much longer until Ryan tosses his cell phone aside, and Brendon spares a vague thought that Ryan should be more careful with his belongings, now that his father won't be willing to pay his expenses much longer.

He doesn't voice that thought, either. Instead, he smiles and turns his head when Ryan shifts closer, his body coming to rest alongside Brendon's. Brendon twines his fingers in Ryan's hair to tug him closer for a kiss, but his plan is interrupted by Ryan's yawn. It's only when Brendon's body immediately decides to mirror it, his jaw nearly cracking, that he realizes just how exhausted he is.

"Hey," Ryan whispers, voice a soft murmur.

Brendon doesn't reply, but he uses his hold on Ryan's hair to pull him closer, until Ryan's forehead is resting against his. Then he exhales in a slow breath and mutters, "Sleep."

"Yeah," Ryan says, "Okay," and pushes his bare ankle between Brendon's feet. Brendon yawns and closes his eyes, only distantly aware of Ryan dragging the blanket up to cover both of them. 

Ryan is already up when Brendon stirs awake. Since Brendon isn't wearing his glasses, he can only make out Ryan's lanky silhouette, a blurred cut-out against the light falling in through the small kitchen window. Something tightens and gives in Brendon's chest.

The strange feeling fades when Ryan drops a spoon and curses when it clatters against the metal sink. Brendon pushes himself up to lean his back against the wall. "What are you doing?"

"Oh." Ryan looks over, and while Brendon's short-sightedness keeps him from seeing clearly, Ryan's posture suggests an almost guilty edge. "Didn't mean to wake you," Ryan adds after a moment. "I mean, not until coffee was done."

"I don't drink coffee, remember?"

"With syrup," Ryan says. "Caramel." At what Brendon hopes is a questioning look, Ryan shifts his weight. "Bought it at Starbucks, a couple days ago."

Now that Ryan mentioned it, Brendon notices the bottle with brownish liquid sitting on the kitchen table. "You don't even like caramel," he says, somewhat stupidly.

Ryan shrugs and goes back to whatever he appears to be doing – boiling water and coffee powder, as far as Brendon can tell. "Jon and Spencer should be packing up stuff for a picnic right now," Ryan tells the pot on the stove. "So, uh, not so much time."

The tight line of Ryan's back makes Brendon wonder whether Ryan actually meant not to wake him at all, but simply sneak out and leave his stupid bottle of syrup behind. He swallows and looks away, crossing his arms to preserve some warmth. "Yeah, okay. Whatever."

Ryan huffs out an impatient breath that makes Brendon sneak a glance at him. Even without his glasses, he can tell Ryan's glaring at him. "Well, are you coming or not?"

Oh.

"Yeah," Brendon says, "yeah, fine," and if his voice sounds a little rough, well, then it's because he only just woke up. Ryan turns around and looks at him, though, and there's no real condemnation in his gaze. He just smiles, and ducks his head, and Brendon feels a little unsteady on his feet. He takes in a breath and says, "Hey, so. How much time do we have?"

"We should probably leave in, like, ten minutes?" Ryan says. "I dunno, did you want to shower?"

"No," Brendon says, and he steps closer, presses Ryan back against the counter and ducks his head to breathe hotly against Ryan's neck, pressing his mouth against Ryan's skin and dragging his teeth.

"Oh," Ryan says, a little breathlessly, and when Brendon looks up he's smiling. Ryan bites his lip and says, "I could text Spence and say my car won't start?"

"Do that," Brendon says, and Ryan does, switching off the stove and sending the text quickly. He's barely put his cell down before Brendon steps up and kisses him, and Ryan sinks into him, clutching at Brendon's shoulder, drawing him close.

"I was making coffee stuff," Ryan mumbles, and Brendon laughs and closes his hands over Ryan's hips, steps backward and leads him to the bed, tumbling down on top of him. Ryan laughs, and Brendon thinks that he should put his contacts in, because he likes seeing Ryan properly, without the faint blurriness to his edges. He closes his eyes instead and kisses Ryan again, and Ryan spreads his legs and pulls Brendon down, rocks up against him until they're both panting into each other's mouths, kisses shallow for lack of air, rubbing gracelessly against each other.

"You should fuck me," Brendon says, and then ruins any potential commanding sexiness in that statement by adding, hopefully, "Please?"

Ryan doesn't seem to mind, though, groans a little with his mouth sliding sticky from Brendon's and across his cheek, sloppy enough that it really shouldn't be hot. It is, anyway, but Brendon has a sneaking suspicion that he might just be too easy when it comes to Ryan. He tries not to dwell on that thought too much.

Brendon rolls to the side and Ryan sits up enough that he can scramble out of his jeans and t-shirt, clumsy and eager enough that Brendon can't help laughing at him. Ryan scowls, says, "Shut up," and Brendon just hums and strips off his own boxers.

"S'your fault," Brendon tells him, "I can't believe you got _dressed_."

"I didn't know you were going to jump me, did I?" Ryan counters, but then he moves back down on Brendon and the first brush of their cocks has both of them closing their eyes and breathing in sharply. Ryan rocks against him once, twice, and then he reaches for the lube and moves down between Brendon's legs to finger him and suck on the head of his cock. Brendon fists his hand in the sheets and stars at the ceiling, forces himself not to rock up with each ragged breath.

Ryan fucks him pretty hard, harder than they've done in a while, but it's good, everything hot and blurry. Ryan spreads himself out on top of Brendon but holds himself high up enough that Brendon has to arch up to get just a little friction, rubbing his dick against Ryan's stomach, and for a while everything is fast and hard enough that Brendon has trouble forming coherent thoughts, let alone pleas for more.

He surprises himself when he comes; a moment ago he'd been thinking that he could hold out for ages, Ryan hot and sweaty against him, his heels digging into Ryan's back, and then there's no holding back, and he's busy making some strangled sound and shoving back hard on Ryan's cock. Ryan shifts backwards and digs his hands into Brendon's hips, lifting him up enough that Ryan can slam in hard, making Brendon gasp and clench down around him, and it isn't long until Ryan collapses forward, sprawling sticky across Brendon.

Brendon turns his head for a kiss, and grins. "Hey," he says. "You sure Spencer's straight? I think going on a picnic is the gayest thing I've ever heard."

"You might wanna wait for me to take my dick out of your ass before you say stuff like that," Ryan says sleepily into Brendon's collarbone, and Brendon laughs and pushes Ryan up, until he pulls out and sits back on his haunches, smiling crookedly at Brendon.

"Your hair is _fucked_," Brendon tells him. "What time is it?"

Ryan stands up and pads into the kitchen, checking his phone and groaning. "We really should go," he says. "You cool for skipping showers?"

"Yeah, whatever," Brendon says, agreeably enough, and starts trying to find some clean clothes.

When they finally get downstairs, Ryan twists his key in the ignition, and then looks horrified.

"What is it?" Brendon asks.

"The car," Ryan says. "It won't start."

For a second they just stare at each other – then Brendon rests his forehead against his knees, and laughs until he cries. 

Spencer's got a flat, annoyed look on his face when they finally arrive, and Ryan knows he's in so much trouble. Jon looks like he's trying to hold back laughter, which further adds to the trouble, and Ryan actually goes to exchange a nervous glance with Brendon before he remembers that Brendon doesn't actually know them, doesn't know what those expressions mean. It makes something in Ryan start, and he has to blink it away.

In any case, Brendon's gaze isn't there to catch. He's staring at the ground, hands pushed in his pockets, shoulders drawn up, and Ryan bites his lip and walks a little bit closer to him, just enough that their shoulders bump. Brendon still doesn't look up, but Ryan hears the breath he draws in.

"I think you should open with 'picnics are gay'," Ryan tells him in a low voice. "Break the ice, you know. It'll be awesome."

"Fuck you," Brendon says, but he looks up and takes one hand out of his pocket to wave awkwardly at Spencer and Jon as they draw close to the rug.

"Hey, guys," Jon says, and Spencer smiles. They're sitting on a checkered blanket with a wicker basket and – Ryan blinks. Okay, so maybe Brendon has a slight point. Still, Jon collects kittens. He's never been a very normal teenage boy.

"Hey," Ryan says. "Sorry we're late."

"It's cool," Jon says, and they sit down on the rug, in a sort of circle. Brendon's knee is bumping against Ryan's, and Ryan wishes that they'd had time to shower – he doubts it's very noticeable, but he feels like Brendon's all over him, has to resist the urge to rest his nose against his own shoulder and breathe it in. Jon grins at them and says, waggling his eyebrows, "Car trouble, huh?"

Ryan frowns. "There really was," he says. "And personally, I find it rude and disloyal of you to doubt me just because—"

"Brendon's got a hickey," Jon says, and Brendon turns bright red and claps a hand over his neck, a little belatedly at this point.

"Um," Ryan says. Brendon glares at him.

"Thanks a lot, fucker," he says. Ryan blinks at him and Brendon says, "What am I going to do on Monday, wear a scarf? We don't _all_like making ourselves look ridiculous."

"Hey," Ryan says, affronted. "Scarves are awesome. I don't see what you're worried about, anyway, that people's view of you as a loser virgin are going to be ruined? Wow, yeah, I'm such an asshole."

Spencer's mouth is twitching in the corners, and Ryan glares at him, but then Brendon opens his mouth, looking huffy, and Spencer and Jon collapse into laughter. "Shut up," Ryan says weakly, and Brendon looks at him and smiles, like he's bewildered and delighted at the same time, and Ryan ducks his head before he does something stupid like smile back.

"So," Spencer says, when he's regained his breath. "Food," and Brendon perks up and makes grabby hands before he can stop himself, which makes Jon laugh again and Brendon grin sheepishly, and Spencer hands around the awesome rolls his mom makes. They sprawl out easier on the blanket, and Spencer starts talking about the course counseling they're doing in picking subjects for the final year, rolling his eyes at the coordinators, until everything's easy and warm, and Ryan closes his eyes and listens to them talk. Brendon even joins in, until he doesn't sound self-conscious at all, and after a while he wraps his hand around Ryan's ankle, not really doing anything, just like a reminder, and Ryan sighs and basks in the sun.

"I'm gonna throw the trash away," Jon says eventually, and then, "Brendon, come with?"

Brendon stands up agreeably, and Ryan has a few moments of peace before Spencer comes and lies down next to him, and that's a pretty huge signal, if ever Ryan knew one. Ryan opens his eyes warily and Spencer is looking at him in the fond, slightly annoyed way that Ryan connects automatically with being told off.

"Please don't give me a lecture," he says.

"What do you think you've done?" Spencer asks, smiling slightly.

"I don't know," Ryan says. "But you've got your Lecture Face on."

"Huh," Spencer says. "Funny about that."

"Really, Spence," Ryan says, and Spencer sighs and sits up, dragging Ryan with him.

"I'm not going to give you a lecture," he says quietly. "I do want to ask what you're doing, though."

"What do you mean?" Ryan asks, wide-eyed, and Spencer just looks at him. Ryan bites his lip, and turns slightly, automatically, to look where Brendon and Jon are walking across the park towards the garbage cans. Brendon's dancing a little, shimmying his ass, and Jon's turned towards him, looking like he's laughing. Ryan swallows hard, and Spencer nods.

"Yeah," he says.

"I – really, Spence," Ryan says. "We're just messing around. He's still an asshole."

"You don't look at him like he's an asshole," Spencer says, and Ryan breathes in deeply.

"I know it seems like – we've been spending time together, or whatever," Ryan says. "But it's just – it's sex, you know, and it's good sex. That's all it is."

"Ryan," Spencer says, frowning a little. "I get if you're – a little messed up over the whole thing, or whatever. But you're _moving__to__Chicago_for him."

"That's not fair," Ryan says. "I want to – it's not all about him, I want to study there too, I need to get out of Vegas."

"I know," Spencer says, "but you can't deny it's partly because of him. Ryan, this is really – I don't know anything about it. You won't talk about him. And that's fine, you don't need to tell us everything, but if you keep – I don't get how you can practically wind yourself around his legs out here, but act like he doesn't _exist_at school."

Ryan flushes. "I don't," he says. "The first one, I mean, I don't."

"You do," Spencer counters, smiling a little. "You're like one of Jon's cats. Ryan, I really don't know how to make it like – I'm not trying to tell you off, or judge whatever you've got going on, I'm just saying."

"What?" Ryan says, losing his temper a little bit. "_What_are you saying, Spencer? From your position of infinite wisdom?"

"Be careful," Spencer says, clear gaze trained on Ryan. "I'm saying be careful, because you're not the only one who's looking, and I think Brendon's alright. I don't want you to break his heart."

Ryan stares at him, mouth hanging open, and Spencer gives him a one-armed hug. "That's all," he says, and then Jon and Brendon arrive and Brendon flops down on his stomach on the blanket, resting his chin on his hands and grinning up at Ryan.

"Dude," he says, "don't you think it's weird that like, we haven't had any ants or something? I thought they were always there for picnics, you know, there's even fucking songs about it," and Jon looks at him and grins and they start singing _the__ants__come__marching__one__by__one_spontaneously.

Ryan takes a breath, hopes his voice is steady, and says, "Probably Spencer scared them off with his bossiness."

Brendon laughs and rolls over onto his back, resting his head in Ryan's lap, and says, "Do we have any grapes left? Chuck them at me, I can catch them in my mouth." Spencer starts aiming them viciously enough that Brendon yelps and scrambles behind Ryan to hide, and Ryan feels Brendon curled warm against his back and concentrates on breathing. 

Ryan spends that night at Brendon's, too, because neither of them have work until Sunday afternoon, and Saturday nights with Ryan's dad are never any good. They're two good reasons, and Ryan has them all prepared, but when he says brusquely, driving Brendon back from the picnic, that he might as well stay another, Brendon doesn't ask for them, just shrugs and waves a hand in some vague, agreeable gesture.

They don't get back to the apartment until late that afternoon, and they end up spending most of their time messing around. Brendon fucks Ryan, but afterward they make out for what feels like hours, until Ryan's mouth is sore and swollen and Brendon's looks the same. There's a movie on TV that night, and they watch it, but later Ryan won't be able to remember what it was.

He wakes up in the middle of the night to Brendon shaking him, looking half-asleep himself, with the faint memory of a nightmare still clutching at him. Ryan gasps and rolls closer to Brendon and Brendon keeps his arm around Ryan and holds him close.

"What is it with you and bad dreams?" Brendon asks after a little while, voice slurring with sleep. "What are you so frightened of, Ross?"

"I don't know," Ryan snaps, angry and scared, still. "What about you?"

The question doesn't make sense, given that Ryan's never had to wake Brendon up from a nightmare, but Brendon hums out something soft and warm and just rolls closer. Ryan thinks Brendon's still mostly asleep, really, because he answers honestly, eyes closed.

"Hmmn," Brendon sighs. "I don't know. My family not talking to me again. Or not getting to Chicago. Or you, I guess."

Ryan swallows hard, Spencer's words playing back in his head. "I'm not scary," he says.

"I know," Brendon says, sinking back against the pillow and smiling crookedly. "Pretty stupid, huh?"

Ryan doesn't say anything for a long while. Then he slides his leg between Brendon's and says, "Brendon?"

"Sleep," Brendon whispers, eyelashes fluttering on his cheeks for a second as he tries to open his eyes, and then he just falls back asleep. Ryan closes his eyes, too, but it takes him a long time to go to sleep. 

The following Friday is Cabaret Night at the school, which all seniors are expected to attend. Brendon's annoyed at it already, because it means that he has to cancel a shift at work and because he hates nothing more than having to play in the Jazz Band, even though he needs it for college applications, but the week passes agonizingly slowly, with a test that doesn't go as well as he'd hoped in Physics and a few awful shifts at the Smoothie Hut. He also hasn't seen Ryan since the weekend, but that's probably a good thing; in the Bad Weeks, Ryan either has a bizarre talent for calming him down entirely or, more often, manages to piss him off enough that they're yelling and spitting at each other for an evening. Brendon's had enough of those kind of headaches.

He ducks out from backstage as soon as the Jazz Band has played, not wanting to hang around for much longer with the rest of the students. None of them really like him, which is just fine, because Brendon hates _them_ and makes no secret of it, much as it disappoints Mr. Stump. Besides that, he'd scanned the audience before he came on, and there was no sign of either of his parents. Brendon doesn't think he'll ever be able to stop looking. He'd hoped, that maybe, maybe – they both knew when Cabaret Night was on, had turned up every year that Brendon played at it – but it had been stupid of him, he knows.

He just needs a breath of fresh air, just needs to get away from the polite applause of the school hall and the laughter and bustle of kids backstage, so he heads into a corridor and goes to the bathroom, not out of any real need. He washes his hands and stares at himself in the mirror, splashes his face with cold water. It's an hour before he can go home. He plans to sleep until an hour before his shift tomorrow, ignore homework until Sunday, much as he'll regret it then. He just needs some peace.

He's about three paces away from the bathroom when Ryan turns the corner, and catches Brendon's eyes. For a moment, Brendon freezes, caught like a deer in the headlights; he's not quite sure what to do, how to react. They generally ignore each other at school, stay on different sides of the room in Biology and English and barely cross paths the rest of the time, and it makes it easier and harder at the same time, to keep Ryan as the guy who comes to pick him up from work or crash at his apartment, rather than the kid he's spent years beating up. School is uneasy territory for both of them, and Brendon feels it keenly when Ryan looks straight at him, face blank, eyes dark. He's wearing neater clothes than usual, dark straight-legged jeans that aren't too tight and a button-up shirt. Brendon wonders if his father is with him.

Then Ryan smiles, and Brendon relaxes without even realizing how tight and strained he'd been holding himself. "I thought I saw you sneak out," Ryan says, and Brendon makes a strange gesture, palms held out, _what__can__you__do?_

Ryan shifts from foot to foot and says, "You were good, on stage. I liked the song."

"No pleasantries, please," Brendon says, rolling his eyes. "I fucking hate that band. The only kid who talks to me is Thomas Davies, and he has the worst breath in the world." He cringes as he says it, realizing too late the ammunition he's given Ryan, the admission of not having any friends, but Ryan just crosses the floor, backing Brendon up against the wall. Ryan gets this walk, sometimes, not the one he does when he's trying on purpose to look hot and swaying his hips, which generally makes him look ridiculous, but all slow and intent with his shoulder blades shifting, and it always, without fail, makes Brendon want to kiss him.

"Alright, no pleasantries," Ryan says, and Brendon leans back against the wall and closes his eyes, half-smiling, lets Ryan kiss him. Ryan murmurs, "You're so _easy_," and Brendon kind of wants to agree, but they're not at his place, a half-mumbled response against Ryan's mouth won't do. He doesn't want to pick a fight, though, so he pushes forward and, in a move that impresses even himself, flips them around until he's got Ryan's back pressed up against the wall. He kisses Ryan hard, and Ryan hums and hooks his fingers through Brendon's belt loops, draws him in close. Brendon can hear the murmuring of families in the auditorium, but his isn't there, and right now he doesn't mind so much.

He pulls back for a moment and Ryan looks at him, eyelashes dark against his skin, expression almost vulnerable. Brendon blinks at him and Ryan says, soft, "Hey, you've got – you've got something. Here," and he licks his thumb and scrubs it against Brendon's cheek, not too rough. Brendon closes his eyes and leans into the touch, and for a moment everything is warm and soft, and Brendon wonders what the chances are of both of them being able to skip out early and going back to his place. He has the sudden image of Ryan sinking to his knees in front of Brendon and man, yes, that would be nice. They haven't done that in a while. He bets he could talk Ryan into it, too.

Then Ryan's shoving him backwards, hard enough to knock the breath out of him, and Brendon's off-balance. He stumbles backwards and lands flat on his ass, and Ryan glares at him and says, "Fuck _you_, Urie, you're the asshole."

Brendon stares up at him, and hears for the first time the approaching footsteps.

"Yeah, there he is," Brent says. "Jesus, you two, do you ever stop beating each other around?"

Brendon feels something like bile rise in his throat, a strange, stupid anger that Ryan would push him away, that Ryan still needs to preserve his perfect fucking image, an acknowledgment of all that Brendon likes to think they've left behind: enemy, fuckbuddy, I hate you. He swallows hard and stares at Ryan with all of the sudden anger and hatred in him, and Ryan glares back at him, but his expression flickers for one second, and Brendon picks himself up and turns to look at the intruders for the first time.

He freezes yet again, because the woman standing next to Brent, looking disappointed, isn't one of Ryan's friends or classmates at all. It's Kara.

"Oh, Brendon," she says, and Brendon takes a stumbling step forward. Her mouth quirks up in a smile, and she says, "So this is the reason for all your detentions?"

"I think the reason is Urie's fat fucking mouth," Ryan snaps, and then he stomps past them, Brent following afterwards. He shoots a quick glance over his shoulder as they turn the corner, and raises his eyebrows slightly at Brendon. Brendon thinks, _you're__still__a__really__bad__actor_.

"Hi, Kara," he says, and it sounds awkward and stilted, but he hasn't seen her in person since he moved out. Kara looks similarly uncomfortable, but then he takes another step forward and suddenly he's in her arms, face pressed against her shoulder, Kara's arms tight and trembling around him.

"You were so good up there," she whispers in his ear, and Brendon shivers, looks at her bright-eyed.

"You were there?" he asks.

"Of course," she says, and she laughs but looks like she's close to tears. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"But Mom and Dad—"

"What they don't know won't hurt them," she says, and then, "They should have been here tonight, anyway. You were so good, Brendon."

"I'm glad you're here," he says, and she hugs him again, holds him close for a long time.

"Come on," she says eventually, pulling back. "Let's go watch the other acts, and then I'll take you out to dinner." 

Saturday night, Ryan's waiting outside his work like always. Brendon slides into the car awkwardly, and for a moment there's silence before he says, "Thank you. For last night."

"It's cool," Ryan says. "Was she—"

"My sister," Brendon says. "The one who still talks to me. I haven't seen her in a while."

"She's the nice one?" Ryan says, and Brendon bristles.

"They're all nice," he says, coldly. "They're my _family_."

"Whatever," Ryan mutters, and there's a tense silence, when Brendon knows they could either head to a fight or some angry making out. After a moment, though, Ryan exhales loudly and says, "Did you have a nice time, anyway? Catching up with her."

"Yeah," Brendon says. He pauses, and asks, "How did you know—"

"I wasn't sure," Ryan says. "But I figured – she looked enough like you, that." He stops and draws in a breath, adds, "Anyway, I don't fucking want to be associated with you by anyone, no matter who they are."

"Okay," Brendon says, even though it hurts, because he remembers the look on Ryan's face when he made Ryan drop him off before they got to the school. _I've__fucked__up_, he thinks. _I've__fucked__up__so__bad._

Something must show in his voice, because Ryan looks over at him quickly. "Your family don't know," Ryan says. "About – that you're gay. Do they?"

Brendon wonders how many times he could have avoided the words, anyway. "No," he says. "They don't."

Ryan nods. "And – you want to talk to them some day," he says. "God knows why, but – you should be able to tell them, like. The way you want."

Brendon has an awful feeling his eyes are too bright, too obvious, so instead of looking at Ryan he just touches Ryan's wrist lightly and repeats, "Thank you." 

"Does it seem weird to you," Jon asks lazily, "how fast this year has passed?"

Spencer hums and stretches out, knocking his head against Ryan's side. Ryan runs his hand over Spencer's hair and says, "Yeah. Yeah, it's really – I can't believe we're almost done. No more high school, _ever_."

"Speak for yourself, asshole," Spencer grumbles, and Ryan laughs, and rubs his hand through Spencer's hair again, combing it back the way Spencer likes, the way that always makes him purr slightly and press back into the touch.

"It's cool, though," he says. "I mean, I'll be glad to – college is going to be great, I think. If I get in. It's – learning something _real_, doing what I want to do."

"Pity you have to go all the way across the country to do it," Jon says, and Ryan swallows hard, focuses his gaze on Spencer's closed eyes.

"Yeah," he says, quietly. He speaks around the sudden lump in his throat, says, "I don't want it to be like – I'm leaving you guys, or something. I. I'm going to miss you so fucking much."

"Same here, Ross," Spencer says, and reaches up a hand to curl it around Ryan's free wrist, the one he's not pushing through Spencer's hair.

"But this is something you've got to do," Jon says, smiling crookedly at Ryan. "It's cool. We get it."

"It's going to be hard," Ryan says, letting himself think about it properly for the first time. The idea of Brendon going to Chicago without him, he'll admit, brings up a sense of wild, fluttering panic in his chest, his gut, and the idea of not leaving Vegas himself makes him sort of sick. Leaving Spencer and Jon behind, though – that just makes him achingly, achingly sad.

"Yeah," Spencer agrees. "It is. But maybe – it might not be for long."

Ryan laughs weakly. "I really hope you're not implying I'm going to drop out," he says.

"No," Spencer says. "I'm implying that I have a year of high school left, and that I'm not that fond of Vegas, either."

Ryan freezes, hand stilling in Spencer's hair. "Are you saying," he begins, and then has to cut himself off, because his voice is embarrassingly rough.

"I have a lot of family in Chicago," Jon says, still with that lazy, warm tone to his voice, like the things they're talking about are of no real consequence. "And my best friend when I was a kid, Tom Conrad, he still lives over there. I'm thinking I'll work for a year, get some savings, then see about some photography courses."

"I like the music management degrees they offer," Spencer says, shifting his head bossily from side to side until Ryan starts combing his hand through Spencer's hair again. "Seriously, Ryan, you're not the only one who sees the appeal of Chicago."

"Besides," Jon says, "you can't just take off to another state and not expect us to come trailing after. What kind of friends would we be then?"

Ryan swallows hard and stares at them, eyes embarrassingly bright. "I haven't been a very good friend," he admits. "This year, I haven't."

"Good enough for us," Spencer says, and opens his eyes to smile up at Ryan. 

Kara's plant has died from either a lack or an overdose of water. It's impossible to tell as sometimes a week went by without Brendon even glancing at it, and often when he remembered to water it, Ryan did the same a few hours later.

Most likely, the death cause is a combination of both, of everything.

As it's just a stupid plant, Brendon shouldn't be feeling as morose as he does. It's not as if his pet died, it's just a plant that is now reduced to a mass of brown leaves. He should chuck it into the trash, but instead, he sets it down in the middle of the wobbly table, puts his chin on his hands and studies the remains with a heavy feeling in his gut.

"What are you staring at?" Ryan asks from the doorway. He's towelling off his damp hair, bare-chested from his recent shower. Goosebumps have risen on his narrow arms, and Brendon swallows dryly against something unnamed that feels a lot like fear.

"Dead plant," he replies.

"Oh." Ryan comes closer, squinting at the brown leaves as if they might hold the answer to the question of life.

Brendon leans back in his chair, tilting his head slightly to the side so that it rests against Ryan's stomach. "Forty-two," he says.

"What?"

"The answer to the question of life." Brendon makes the corners of his mouth curl up. "You were looking as if the dead plant might have it. It's forty-two, though."

"Try reading decent literature." There's a snobby note to Ryan's voice, but it's negated by the hand he runs along Brendon's shoulder. Brendon doesn't pick a fight, even though, seriously, Douglas Adams isn't decent literature? Ryan is such an elitist sometimes. Also, a moron. "So, what's up with the plant."

"Nothing." Brendon shrugs. "My sister gave it to me."

"Okay." Ryan turns around, the tabletop digging into his back. He drapes the damp towel around his shoulders and gazes down at Brendon for a moment before he grins, something soft around his mouth. "Hey, it's just a plant."

"Yeah." Brendon knows. It's just—He doesn't like losing things, he's been losing a lot of good things recently, and he doesn't—

It's just a plant, though. And Ryan's still watching him with that soft expression, almost as if he understands. He doesn't, of course, but he hasn't left yet.

Brendon decides to bury the question of when Ryan became a good thing, someone Brendon was afraid to lose, at the very back of his mind. With work and finals and college applications, there's enough on Brendon's plate. Ryan is just more than Brendon can deal with, maybe.

It doesn't stop him from turning into Ryan's touch. 

Jon was right the other day, though, in that the year has passed quickly, in that it continues to pass quickly. Ryan finds the days going by in a rush of classes, exam preparation, constant studying and people talking about what they want to do, what they should do, what they're going to do. The announcement date for the Northwestern scholarships draws closer and Ryan feels his stomach tie itself into knots with each passing day, wishing sometimes that he could just know already, other days feeling sure that all that's going to come is a disappointment he'd like to postpone as long as possible.

He manages to spend at least one night a week with Brendon, but Brendon's working more than ever, and Ryan has the distinct impression that Brendon's avoiding him during school time hours, so it's not like he can snatch a moment here or there during the day. One afternoon, though, he comes across Brendon hunched into a corner and listening to a bunch of guys that Ryan recognizes at the ones who go to what used to be Brendon's Church, and he looks tired and lonely and kind of hungry, too. That night, Ryan follows him back to his place, and talks for a long time about how ridiculous it is, the thoughtless condemnation of things in organized religion.

"It's all about love, right," he rambles, "and if religion claims that God is so almighty and does only good, then it's obvious that He'd only create things He approves of, like, with gender and sexuality and stuff, you know? It's just _illogical_to disapprove of it." Brendon listens to it all, but he doesn't say anything and his expression is wary and tired, his shoulders hunched, and Ryan has the feeling that he's out of his depth, talking about things he's never really had to deal with, things he doesn't understand very much, anyway. He stops and stares helplessly at Brendon for a moment, and then he says, "You know what? I could blow you, right now."

Brendon looks straight at him, eager and surprised and amused all at once, and he drags Ryan over to the mattress and sprawls out with his legs parted and his hips pushing up into the air, demanding and hot all at once. Brendon's too lazy afterward to do more than just get Ryan off with his hand, but Ryan doesn't mind so much, not with how when he's sucking Brendon off Brendon forgets to be frustrated and sad, thrashes around and mutters stupid nonsense instead.

That night, though, he forgets all about the homework due the next day in favour of hanging out and sleeping at Brendon's place, and only some fast talking gets him out of a detention he really doesn't have time for. They go back to one night each weekend, and it's good, it's the way to do things so that they pass school and get where they want to go, Ryan knows, but it's still a little frustrating.

Jon gives him a knowing look when Ryan remarks upon it, and Ryan snaps, "I don't _miss_him, shut the fuck up."

"I never said anything about you missing him or not," Jon says mildly. "You did that."

Ryan moves on, starts going back over a year's worth of study, which is a lot harder than he had calculated for. He ends up staying up late every night for three weeks, sometimes roping Spencer in to test him on things, give him quizzes until every date for History is drummed into his head and he can list the causes and reactions to the 1905 Russian Revolution in his sleep (and, as Jon tells him in an amused voice after one Friday Movie Night, he _does_). During lunchtimes he starts writing practice essays for final exams, handing them in until Mr. Beckett flinches over-exaggeratedly at the sight of him every time they run into each other, cries, "Not _another_ essay, Ross! I have a life, you know." He corrects every one, though, and he'll leave comments like _this__is__really__good.__Here's__the__things__that__you__can__do__better__on_, even when Ryan's ahead of most of the class. Annoying as it is, Ryan will grudgingly appreciate a teacher who doesn't let him get complacent.

One night, his dad is home for dinner, and sober. Ryan eyes him uneasily across the table and is mostly silent for the meal, until his dad asks, "You applied for colleges and stuff then?"

"Yes," Ryan says.

"UNLV?"

Ryan breathes in sharply. "Yes," he says. "But it's my back-up. My first choice is still Chicago."

His dad looks at him with narrowed eyes. "_I'm_ still not paying for that," he says, and Ryan slams up to his feet.

"I don't think I asked you to," he says, and walks out of the room. His dad yells after him but Ryan gets in the car, and he's halfway to Brendon's place when he realises he's not that angry. He's tired and disappointed, but he doesn't have the same urge to bite and push and grab, take out all the directionless fury on Brendon. Mostly, the appeal of going over to Brendon's place right now is some lazy sex and making out and late night movies, and Ryan swallows hard, staring at the traffic light.

They both have a lot of work to do. Ryan goes to Jon's house instead, and they spend the night doing all the practice Calculus tests at the back of the textbook.

The days pass. More and more often, Ryan finds himself coming across some girls crying in a group together at the idea of leaving school, some student with a teacher talking seriously about options, asking for references. Everything seems kind of insanely huge and busy, and yet not very dramatic, either. The days just keep passing, and Ryan thinks that the year has gone by so fast, almost too fast, because he hasn't gotten the time to appreciate it properly. He's about to leave school. Possibly, he thinks, he should be some kind of new person, older and wiser and stronger on his feet; he shouldn't feel as messed up and small as ever, shouldn't be so nervous about the possibility of the scholarship that he finds himself nauseous. He definitely shouldn't be adding up exactly how much affection he's shown Brendon Urie over the past week, and how much more he can get away with. Then and then again: the strangest thing of all about this year still feels, sometimes, that instead of beating Brendon up he's fucking him.

Ryan wonders about the beginning of the year, about the fights and then the detentions and hating Brendon so much that it felt like it filled up every pore of him every time he looked at Brendon. He almost understands it, now; he'd needed it, that clean, simple kind of hate. Sometimes, he almost misses it – nothing about Brendon these days is clean and simple. Usually, though, he doesn't miss it for long. Brendon has a way of distracting him.

"Are you frightened?" Ryan had asked him one night, trying not to think about late night, half-asleep confessions, and Brendon had smiled at him, vicious and pleased, and said, _I'm__not__afraid__of__anything_.

The days keep passing. Ryan notes it with a mild kind of wonder, and then turns back to his books. 

The letter is waiting for him on Tuesday afternoon, and Ryan sits it on the kitchen table and stares at it for almost an hour, a stupid sort of face off. He laughs at himself, and rips it open, and then he has to go and clutch at the sink for a moment before he takes the letter out of the envelope. For a moment he thinks he's going to throw up, stomach convulsing, breath hitching in awful little gagging gasps, and then he thinks, _stop__being__so__melodramatic_, and turns back to the table.

His hands are almost steady when he pulls it out. The first sentence says, _We__are__delighted__to__offer__you__a__place__in__our__English__Department__2006__with__complete__scholarship_, and Ryan sits down and has to concentrate for a few minutes on not doing anything too ridiculous or hysterical, like bursting into laughter, or tears. He pulls out his phone instead, and calls Brendon with a giddy, swooping feeling in his stomach, but it goes straight to voicemail – and Brendon works all night on Tuesdays, of course.

He calls Spencer and Jon instead, and they come around with pizza and ice cream and loud, delighted voices, and stay until nine, because it's a school night and they have reasonably strict parents when it comes to things like that. He means to just hang around until Brendon's shift finishes, and then call him again, but after a while he stands up with a curse and grabs his keys, heading out the door and into his car. It's late by the time he gets to Brendon's apartment, and Brendon's probably on his way home right then, so he lets himself in with Brendon's spare key and paces around Brendon's empty apartment, waiting.

The door below scrapes open and Brendon's voice says, very clearly, "Holy _shit_!" Ryan walks to the doorway and leans against it, and a moment later Brendon comes scrambling up the stairs, pulling out his cell and clutching a crumpled letter in his hand. He's beaming stupidly. Ryan doesn't think it's bad news.

"Hey," he says, grinning, and Brendon skids to a halt at the top of the landing, almost falling back over the stairs. He looks at Ryan, bright-eyed, and pushes his phone back in his pocket.

"Well?" Brendon demands, and Ryan waves his own letter at Brendon. Brendon's grin, impossibly, widens. "Fuck," he says. "Another four years stuck with you," and Ryan steps forward and Brendon meets him halfway, winding his arms around Ryan's neck and kissing him warm and hard enough to knock Ryan back through the doorway, send him staggering backwards for a few steps.

"Hi," Brendon says breathlessly against his mouth, and Ryan pulls back enough to look at him and thinks, heart racing, _I__am__so__in__love__with__you_.

He doesn't say it out loud. He doesn't think there's enough courage in the world that would let him say it out loud, so he tries instead with, "Are you – we're doing this, right?"

"No, Ryan," Brendon says, grinning stupidly. "We got the scholarships, and now we're going to stay here instead. The hairdressing apprenticeship of my dreams awaits."

"No, I mean," Ryan says, and takes a step back, can feel his cheeks turning red. "I mean, we're doing this together, I – you and me, just, you and me, right?"

Brendon's smile fades. He takes a breath and says, "You're not going to find some – some pretty girl in Chicago to live happily ever after with?"

"I don't want a pretty girl," Ryan says.

Brendon laughs. It sounds a little bit hollow. "Yeah, I know, man, bi or not you like getting fucked too much—"

"I don't want a pretty boy, either," Ryan says. He swallows hard. "I. Just you. I just want you."

Brendon lets out a shaky breath. He drops his backpack on the floor and puts the letter on the kitchen counter, stepping close to Ryan and backing him up against the table. Ryan's glad for the support, wood at his back and Brendon at his front – he feels a little bit like he's going to fall over. Brendon kisses him, soft and warm, and Ryan fists his hand in Brendon's shirt, clings blindly, dragging him close.

Brendon breaks away a little bit, rests his forehead against Ryan's. "Who else d'you think I'd have?" he asks quietly.

Ryan frowns. "Don't," he says. "Don't say that, you're." He pauses, frustrated; compliments don't really come as easy as the insults they've been throwing at each other for years. "Plenty of people would want—"

"No," Brendon says. "No, I mean, who else do you think _I'd_ want?"

"Oh," Ryan says.

"Oh," Brendon mocks, and Ryan leans in and kisses him again, kisses him breathless, slides his arms around Brendon and helps him hold the both of them up. Ryan thinks, very briefly, about being fourteen; about being new in a high school without Spencer for a whole year, about not knowing that a week later Jonathan Walker would move to school and things would be pretty good, after all. He remembers his third day of school, and being tired and upset because his mom had come for one of her rare visits the night before, and spent the whole time talking about her amazing family "back home", and how that morning he'd watched some kid with a lame haircut hug his mom goodbye at the school gate, completely unembarrassed, even though they were _teenagers_, what the fuck. He remembers keeping an eye out for the kid in his English class, mocking some stumbling answer that the guy attempted, rudely enough to have the teacher send Ryan out. He remembers that lunchtime, and the first, clean punch, and the way the pain had felt good, had felt triumphant.

It feels the same when Brendon bites at his lip, and Ryan's still winning, four years on. This time, though, he thinks that maybe he can share the victory. 

**The End**


End file.
